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WHITTIER-LAND.  Illustrated.  i2mo,  $1.00 
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LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  JOHN  GREEN- 
LEAF  WHITTIER.  With  Portraits  and 
other  Illustrations.  2  vols.  crown  8vo,  gilt 
top,  $4.00. 


WHITTIER-LAND 


-   ' 


WHITTIER'S  BIRTHPLACE 


WHITTIER-LAND 

of 


CONTAINING  MANY  ANECDOTES  OF  AND  POEMS 

BY   JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

NEVER  BEFORE  COLLECTED 


BY 

SAMUEL  T.  PICKARD 

AUTHOR  OF  "LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  JOHN  GREBNLEAF  WHITTIER" 
ILLUSTRATED  WITH  MAP  AND  ENGRAVINGS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

dbe  flibcrjgiUe  prejM,  CambriDge 

1904 


COPYRIGHT    1904   BY   SAMUEL   T.   PICKARD 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Published  April  1904 


9- 


PREFACE 

THIS  volume  is  designed  to  meet  a  call  from  tourists  who 
are  visiting  the  Whittier  shrines  at  Haverhill  and  Ames- 
^  bury  in  numbers  that  are  increasing  year  by  year.    Besides 
*""  describing  the  ancestral  homestead  and  its  surroundings, 
5  and  the  home  at  Amesbury,  an  attempt  is  made  to  answer 
such  questions  as  naturally  arise  in  regard  to  the  localities 
mentioned  by  Whittier  in  his  ballads  of  the  region.    Many 
anecdotes  of  the  poet  and  several  poems  by  him  are  now 
first  published.    It  is  with  some  hesitancy  that  I  have  ven- 
tured to  add  a  chapter  upon  a  phase  of  his  character  that 
has  never  been  adequately  presented :  I  refer  to  his  keen 
v)  sense  of  humor.    It  will  be  understood  that  none  of  the 
u  impromptu  verses  I  have  given  to  illustrate  his  playful 
§  moods  were  intended  by  him  to  be  seen  outside  a  small 
^  circle  of  friends  and  neighbors.  This  playfulness,  however, 
§  was  so  much  a  part  of  his  character  from  boyhood  to  old 
™  age  that  I  think  it  deserves  some  record  such  as  is  here 
given. 

For  those  who  are  interested  to  inquire  to  whom  refer 
passages  in  such  poems  as  "  Memories,"  "  My  Playmate," 
and  "A  Sea  Dream,"  I  now  feel  at  liberty  to  give  such 
information  as  could  not  properly  be  given  at  the  time 
when  I  undertook  the  biography  of  the  poet. 

If  any  profit  shall  be  derived  from  the  sale  of  this  book, 
it  will  be  devoted  to  the  preservation  and  care  of  the 
homes  here  described,  which  will  ever  be  open  to  such 
visitors  as  love  the  memory  of  Whittier. 

S.  T.  P. 

WHITTIER  HOME,  AMESBURY,  MASS., 
March,  1904. 

344016 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    Haverhill i 

II.    Amesbury 53 

III.  Whittier's  Sense  of  Humor 105 

IV.  Whittier's  Uncollected  Poems 127 

Index iSS 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


WHITTIER'S  BIRTHPLACE Frontispiece 

From  a  photograph  by  Alfred  A.  Ordway. 

MAP  OF  WHITTIER-LAND xii 

RIVER  PATH,  NEAR  HAVERHILL 5 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

HAVERHILL  ACADEMY 6 

From  a  photograph  by  G.  W.  W.  Bartlett. 

MAIN  STREET,  HAVERHILL 8 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

BIRTHPLACE  IN  WINTER 9 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

KENOZA  LAKE •        •        .10 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

FERNSIDE  BROOK,  THE  STEPPING-STONES    .        .        .        .        n 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

THE  BIRTHPLACE,  FROM  THE  ROAD 13 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

"THE  HAUNTED  BRIDGE  OF  COUNTRY  BROOK"        .        .        15 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  L.  Bickum. 

GARDEN  AT  BIRTHPLACE 18 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  L.  Bickum. 

SNOW-BOUND  KITCHEN,  EASTERN  END       ....        21 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

SNOW-BOUND  KITCHEN,  WESTERN  END 23 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

THE  WHITTIER  ELM 29 

JOSHUA  COFFIN,  WHITTIER'S  FIRST  SCHOOLMASTER     .        .    31 
SCENE  OF  "  IN  SCHOOL  DAYS" 33 

From  a  pencil  sketch  by  W.  L.  Bickum. 

HARRIET  LIVERMORE,  "HALF-WELCOME  GUEST"  .        .        .41 


x  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

SCENE  ON  COUNTRY  BROOK 43 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

THE  SYCAMORES .      .        .45 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

OLD  GARRISON  HOUSE  (PEASLEE  HOUSE)    ....       47 
ROCKS  VILLAGE  AND  BRIDGE 48 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

RIVER  VALLEY,  NEAR  GRAVE  OF  COUNTESS        ...       49 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

DR.  ELIAS  WELD,  THE  "  WISE  OLD  PHYSICIAN  "  OF  SNOW- 
BOUND, AT  THE  AGE  OF  NINETY 50 

CURSON'S  MILL,  ARTICHOKE  RIVER 57 

From  a  photograph  by  Ordway. 

DEER  ISLAND  AND  CHAIN  BRIDGE,  HOME  OF  MRS.  SPOF- 
FORD 59 

THE  WHITTIER  HOME,  AMESBURY 61 

From  a  photograph  by  Mrs.  P.  A.  Perry. 

JOSEPH  STURGE,  WHITTIER'S  ENGLISH  BENEFACTOR     .        .    63 
"  GARDEN  ROOM,"  AMESBURY  HOME    .        .        .       .        .       65 

From  a  photograph  by  C.  W.  Briggs. 

MRS.  THOMAS,  TO  WHOM  "  MEMORIES  "  WAS  ADDRESSED      .    67 
EVELINA  BRAY,  AT  THE  AGE  OF  SEVENTEEN     .       .        .     .  68 

From  a  miniature  by  J.  S.  Porter. 

WHITTIER,    AT   THE    AGE    OF    TWENTY-TWO.    His   earliest 

portrait 69 

From  a  miniature  by  J.  S.  Porter. 

EVELINA  BRAY  DOWNEY,  AT  THE  AGE  OF  EIGHTY   .        .        71 
ELIZABETH  WHITTIER  PICKARD        .        ...        .        .        -75 

From  a  portrait  by  Kittell. 

SCENE  IN  GARDEN,  AT  WHITTIER'S  FUNERAL    ...        76 
THE  FERRY,  SALISBURY  POINT,  MOUTH  OF  Powow      .        .    77 

From  a  photograph  by  Miss  Woodman. 

Powow  RIVER  AND  Po  HILL 79 

From  a  photograph  by  Miss  Woodman. 

FRIENDS'  MEETING-HOUSF.  AT  AMESBURY       .        .        .        .80 

From  a  photograph  by  Mrs.  P.  A.  Perry. 

INTERIOR  OF  FRIENDS'  MEETING-HOUSE  81 

From  a  photograph  by  G.  W.  W.  Bartlett. 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS  xi 

CAPTAIN'S  WELL 83 

From  a  photograph  by  G.  W.  W.  Bartlett. 

WHITTIER  LOT,  UNION  CEMETERY,  AMESBURY          .       .       85 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  R.  Merryman. 

THE  FOUNTAIN  ON  MUNDY  HILL 87 

ROCKY  HILL  CHURCH    .  88 

From  a  photograph  by  Miss  Woodman. 

INTERIOR  OF  ROCKY  HILL  CHURCH 89 

From  a  photograph  by  Miss  Woodman. 

SCENE  OF  "  THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH  "...  90 

SCENE  OF  "  THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  "       ....  91 
HAMPTON    RIVER    MARSHES,   AS   SEEN    FROM    WHITTIER'S 

CHAMBER 92 

From  a  photograph  by  Greenleaf  Whittier  Pickard. 

HOUSE  OF  Miss  GOVE,  HAMPTON  FALLS,  WHITTIER  ON  THE 
BALCONY 93 

From  a  photograph  taken  a  few  days  before  the  poet's  death,  by  Green- 
leaf  W-hittier  Pickard. 

CHAMBER  IN  WHICH  WHITTIER  DIED 94 

AMESBURY  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 95 

From  a  photograph  by  Oilman  P.  Smith. 

WHITTIER,  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FORTY-NINE    ....       97 

From  a  daguerreotype  by  Thomas  E.  Boutelle. 

THE  WOOD  GIANT,  AT  STURTEVANT'S,  CENTRE  HARBOR         99 

THE  CARTLAND  HOUSE,  NEWBURYPORT 101 

WHITEFIELD  CHURCH  AND  BIRTHPLACE  OF  GARRISON      .      103 

BEARCAMP  HOUSE,  WEST  OSSIPEE,  N.  H no 

GROUP  OF  FRIENDS  AT  STURTEVANT'S,  CENTRE  HARBOR, 

WITH  WHITTIER 113 

JOSIAH  BARTLETT  STATUE,  HUNTINGTON  SQUARE,  AMES- 
BURY  123 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  W.  Briggs. 


KEY:  — 


1.  The  Whittier  Birthplace.  7.  The  Sycamores. 

2.  Joshua  Coffin's  School,  in  house  now  occupied  by  8.  Ramoth  Hill. 

Thomas  Guild.  Scene  of  poem  "  To  My  Old  9.  Hunting  Hill. 
Schoolmaster." 


MAP   OF   WH' 

6.  Cemetery   referred   to   in    "  The  Old  Burying     i; 
Ground.'" 


3.  Site  of  District  School.    Scene  of  "  In  School 

Days." 

4.  Job's' Hill. 

5.  East  Haverhill  Church. 


0.  Grave  of  the  Countess.  i< 

1.  Country  Bridge.  21 

2.  Site  of  Thomas  Whittier's  Log  House.  2: 

3.  Birchy  Meadow,  where  Whittier  taught  school.  2: 

4.  Home  of  Sarah  Greenleaf.  2. 


ITIER-LAND 

Home  of  Dr.  Elias  Weld  and  of  the  Countess,     24.  The  Captain's  Well. 

Rocks  Village.  25.  Friends'  Meeting-House,  Amesbury. 

Old  Garrison,"  the  Puaslee  House.  26.  Whittier  Home,  Amesbury. 

Rocks  Bridge.  27.  Hawkswood. 

Curson's  Mill,  Artichoke  River.  28.  Deer  Island,  Chain  Bridge,  home  of  Mrs.  Spofford. 

Pleasant  Valley.  29.  Rocky  Hill  Church. 

The  Laurels.  30.  The  Fountain,  Mundy  Hill. 

Site  of  "  Goody"  Martin's  House.  31.  House  at  Hampton  Falls,  where  Whittier  died. 

Whittier  Hurial  Lot,  Union  Cemetery.  32.  Scene  of  "  The  Wreck  of   Rivermouth.'' 

Macy  House.  33.  Boar's  Head. 


HAVERHILL 


WHITTIER-LAND 


HAVERHILL 

THE  whole  valley  of  the  Merrimac,  from  its  source  among 
the  New  Hampshire  hills  to  where  it  meets  the  ocean  at 
Newburyport,  has  been  celebrated  in  Whittier's  verse,  and 
might  well  be  called  "  Whittier-Land."  But  the  object  of 
these  pages  is  to  describe  only  that  part  of  the  valley  in- 
cluded in  Essex  County,  the  northeastern  section  of  Mas- 
sachusetts. The  border  line  separating  New  Hampshire 
from  the  Bay  State  is  three  miles  north  of  the  river,  and 
follows  all  its  turnings  in  this  part  of  its  course.  For  this 
reason  each  town  on  the  north  of  the  Merrimac  is  but 
three  miles  in  width.  It  was  on  this  three-mile  strip  that 
Whittier  made  his  home  for  his  whole  life.  His  birthplace 
in  Haverhill  was  his  home  for  the  first  twenty-nine  years 
of  his  life.  He  lived  in  Amesbury  the  remaining  fifty-six 
years.  The  birthplace  is  in  the  East  Parish  of  Haverhill, 
three  miles  from  the  City  Hall,  and  three  miles  from  what 
was  formerly  the  Amesbury  line.  It  is  nearly  midway 
between  the  New  Hampshire  line  and  the  Merrimac 
River.  In  1876  the  township  of  Merrimac  was  formed 
out  of  the  western  part  of  Amesbury,  and  this  new  town  is 
interposed  between  the  two  homes,  which  are  nine  miles 
apart. 

Haverhill,  Merrimac,  Amesbury,  and  Salisbury  are  each 
on  the  three-mile-wide  ribbon  of  land  stretching  to  the 
sea,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river.  On  the  opposite  bank 
are  Bradford,  Groveland,  Newbury,  and  Newburyport. 


4  WHITTIER-LAND 

The  whole  region  on  both  sides  of  the  river  abounds  in 
beautifully  rounded  hills  formed  of  glacial  deposits  of 
clay  and  gravel,  and  they  are  fertile  to  their  tops.  At 
many  points  they  press  close  to  the  river,  which  has  worn 
its  channel  down  to  the  sea-level,  and  feels  the  influence 
of  the  tides  beyond  Haverhill.  This  gives  picturesque 
effects  at  many  points.  The  highest  of  the  hills  have 
summits  about  three  hundred  and  sixty  feet  above  the 
surface  of  the  river,  and  there  are  many  little  lakes  and 
ponds  nestling  in  the  hollows  in  every  direction.  In  the 
early  days  these  hills  were  crowned  with  lordly  growths  of 
oak  and  pine,  and  some  of  them  still  retain  these  adorn- 
ments. But  most  of  the  summits  are  now  open  pastures 
or  cultivated  fields.  The  roofs  and  spires  of  prosperous 
cities  and  villages  are  seen  here  and  there  among  their 
shade  trees,  and  give  a  human  interest  to  the  lovely  land- 
scape. It  is  not  surprising  that  Whittier  found  inspiration 
for  the  beautiful  descriptive  passages  which  occur  in  every 
poem  which  has  this  river  for  theme  or  illustration :  — 

"  Stream  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile." 

Here  is  a  description  of  the  scenery  of  the  Merrimac 
Valley  by  Mr.  Whittier  himself,  in  a  review  of  Rev.  P.  S. 
Boyd's  "  Up  and  Down  the  Merrimac,"  written  for  a  jour- 
nal with  which  I  was  connected,  and  never  reprinted  until 
now :  — 

"  The  scenery  of  the  lower  valley  of  the  Merrimac  is 
not  bold  nor  remarkably  picturesque,  but  there  is  a  great 
charm  in  the  panorama  of  its  soft  green  intervales :  its 
white  steeples  rising  over  thick  clusters  of  elms  and 
maples,  its  neat  villages  on  the  slopes  of  gracefully  rounded 
hills,  dark  belts  of  woodland,  and  blossoming  or  fruited 
orchards,  which  would  almost  justify  the  words  of  one  who 


HAVERHILL  5 

formerly  sojourned  on  its  banks,  that  the  Merrimac  is  the 
fairest  river  this  side  of  Paradise.  Thoreau  has  immor- 
talized it  in  his  '  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack 
Rivers.'  The  late  Caleb  Gushing,  who  was  not  by  nature 
inclined  to  sentiment  and  enthusiasm,  used  to  grow  elo- 
quent and  poetical  when  he  spoke  of  his  native  river. 


KIVER    PATH 

Brissot,  the  leader  of  the  Girondists  in  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, and  Louis  Philippe,  who  were  familiar  with  its  scen- 
ery, remembered  it  with  pleasure.  Anne  Bradstreet,  the 
wife  of  Governor  Bradstreet,  one  of  the  earliest  writers  of 
verse  in  New  England,  sang  of  it  at  her  home  on  its  banks 
at  Andover  ;  and  the  lovely  mistress  of  Deer  Island,  who 
sees  on  one  hand  the  rising  moon  lean  above  the  low  sea 


6  WHITTI-ER-LAND 

horizon  of  the  east,  and  on  the  other  the  sunset  reddening 
the  track  of  the  winding  river,  has  made  it  the  theme  and 
scene  of  her  prose  and  verse." 

The  visitor  who  approaches  Whittier-Land  by  the  way 
of  Haverhill  will  find  in  that  city  many  places  of  interest 
in  connection  with  the  poet's  early  life,  and  referred  to 
in  his  poems.  The  Academy  for  which  he  wrote  the  ode 


HAVERHILL    ACADEMY 

sung  at  its  dedication  in  1827,  when  he  was  a  lad  of  nine- 
teen, and  before  he  had  other  than  district  school  training. 
is  now  the  manual  training  school  of  the  city,  and  may  be 
found,  little  changed  except  by  accretion,  on  Winter  Street, 
near  the  city  hall.  As  this  ode  does  not  appear  in  any  of 
his  collected  works,  and  is  certainly  creditable  as  a  juve- 
nile production,  it  is  given  here.  It  was  sung  to  the  air 
of  "Pillar  of  Glory:"  — 


HAVERHILL  7 

Hail,  Star  of  Science  !    Come  forth  in  thy  splendor, 

Illumine  these  walls  —  let  them  evermore  be 
A  shrine  where  thy  votaries  offerings  may  tender, 
Hallowed  by  genius,  and  sacred  to  thee. 

Warmed  by  thy  genial  glow, 

Here  let  thy  laurels  grow 
Greenly  for  those  who  rejoice  at  thy  name. 

Here  let  thy  spirit  rest, 

Thrilling  the  ardent  breast, 
Rousing  the  soul  with  thy  promise  of  fame. 

Companion  of  Freedom  !    The  light  of  her  story, 

Wherever  her  voice  at  thine  altar  is  known 
There  shall  no  cloud  of  oppression  come  o'er  thee, 
No  envious  tyrant  thy  splendor  disown. 

Sons  of  the  proud  and  free 

Joyous  shall  cherish  thee, 
Long  as  their  banners  in  triumph  shall  wave ; 

And  from  its  peerless  height 

Ne'er  shall  thy  orb  of  light 
Sink,  but  to  set  upon  Liberty's  grave. 

Smile  then  upon  us ;  on  hearts  that  have  never 

Bowed  down  'neath  oppression's  unhallowed  control. 
Spirit  of  Science  !    O,  crown  our  endeavor ; 
Here  shed  thy  beams  on  the  night  of  the  soul ; 

Then  shall  thy  sons  entwine, 

Here  for  thy  sacred  shrine, 
Wreaths  that  shall  flourish  through  ages  to  come, 

Bright  in  thy  temple  seen, 

Robed  in  immortal  green, 
Fadeless  memorials  of  genius  shall  bloom. 

Haverhill,  although  but  three  miles  wide,  is  ten  miles 
long,  and  includes  many  a  fertile  farm  out  of  sight  of 
city  spires,  and  out  of  sound  of  city  streets.  As  Whittier 
says  in  the  poem  "  Haverhill :  "  — 

"  And  far  and  wide  it  stretches  still, 
Along  its  southward  sloping  hill, 
And  overlooks  on  either  hand 
A  rich  and  many-watered  land. 


8  WH1TTIER-LAND 

And  Nature  holds  with  narrowing  space, 
From  mart  and  crowd,  her  old-time  grace, 
And  guards  with  fondly  jealous  arms 
The  wild  growths  of  outlying  farms. 

Her  sunsets  on  Kenoza  fall, 
Her  autumn  leaves  by  Saltonstall 
No  lavished  gold  can  richer  make 
Her  opulence  of  hill  and  lake." 

This  "  opulence  of  hill  and  lake  "  is  the  especial  charm 
of  Haverhill.   The  two  symmetrical  hills,  named  Gold  and 


MAIN   STREET,   HAVERHILL 
City  Hall  at  the  right ;  Haverhill  Bridge  in  middle  distance 

Silver,  near  the  river,  one  above  and  one  below  the  city 
proper,  are  those  referred  to  in  "  The  Sycamores  "  as 
viewed  by  Washington  with  admiring  comment,  standing 
in  his  stirrups  and 

"  Looking  up  and  looking  down 
On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town." 


io  WHITTIER-LAND 

Silver  Hill  is  the  one  with  the  tower  on  it.  As  one  takes 
at  the  railway  station  the  electric  car  for  the  three-mile 
trip  to  the  Whittier  birthplace,  two  lakes  are  soon  passed 
on  the  right.  The  larger  one,  overlooked  by  the  stone 
castle  on  top  of  a  great  hill  embowered  in  trees,  is  Ke- 
noza — a  name  signifying  pickerel.  It  was  christened  by 
Whittier  with  the  poem  which  has  permanently  fixed  its 


KENOZA 

name.  The  whole  lake  and  the  beautiful  wooded  hills  sur- 
rounding it,  with  the  picturesque  castle  crowning  one  of 
them,  are  now  included  in  a  public  park  of  which  any  city 
might  be  proud.  Our  car  passes  close  at  hand,  on  the  left, 
another  lake  not  visible  because  it  is  so  much  above 
us.  This  is  a  singular  freak  of  nature  —  a  deep  lake  fed 
by  springs  on  top  of  a  hill.  The  surface  of  this  lake  is 
far  above  the  tops  of  most  of  the  houses  of  Haverhill, 
and  it  is  but  a  few  rods  from  Kenoza,  which  lies  almost 
a  hundred  feet  below.  Our  road  is  at  middle  height  be- 
tween the  two,  and  only  a  stone's  throw  from  either. 


FERNSIDE  BROOK,  THE  STEPPING-STONES 


12  WHITTIER-LAND 

As  we  approach  the  birthplace,  it  is  over  the  northern 
shoulder  of  Job's  Hill,  the  summit  of  which  is  high  above 
us  at  the  right.  This  hill  was  named  for  an  Indian  chief 
of  the  olden  time.  We  look  down  at  the  left  into  an  idyl- 
lic valley,  and  through  the  trees  that  skirt  a  lovely  brook 
catch  sight  of  the  ancient  farmhouse  on  a  gentle  slope 
which  seems  designed  by  nature  for  its  reception.  To 
the  west  and  south  high  hills  crowd  closely  upon  this 
valley,  but  to  the  east  are  green  meadows  through  which 
winds,  at  last  at  leisure,  the  brook  just  released  from  its 
tumble  among  the  rocks  of  old  Job's  left  shoulder.  The 
road  by  which  we  have  come  is  comparatively  new,  and 
was  not  in  existence  when  the  Whittiers  lived  here.  The 
old  road  crosses  it  close  by  the  brook,  which  is  here 
bridged.  The  house  faces  the  brook,  and  not  the  road, 
presenting  to  the  highway  the  little  eastern  porch  that 
gives  entrance  to  the  kitchen,  —  the  famous  kitchen  of 
"  Snow-Bound." 

The  barn  is  across  the  road  directly  opposite  this  porch. 
It  is  now  much  longer  than  it  was  in  Whittier's  youth,  but 
two  thirds  of  it  towards  the  road  is  the  old  part  to  which 
the  boys  tunneled  through  the  snowdrift  — 

..."  With  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot." 

This  is  not  the  original  barn  of  the  pioneers,  but  was 
built  by  Whittier's  father  and  uncle  Moses  in  1821.  The 
ancient  barn  was  not  torn  down  till  some  years  later.  It 
was  in  what  is  now  the  orchard  back  of  the  house.  There 


W    o 
u  ?• 


w  S 

a  & 


14  WHITTIER-LAND 

used  to  be,  close  to  the  cattle-yard  of  the  comparatively 
new  barn,  a  shop  containing  a  blacksmith's  outfit.  This 
was  removed  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  being  in  a  ruin- 
ous condition  from  extreme  old  age.  It  had  not  been  so 
tenderly  cared  for  as  was  its  contemporary  of  the  Stuart 
times  across  the  road. 

Thomas  Whittier,  the  pioneer,  did  not  happen  upon 
this  valley  upon  his  first  arrival  from  England,  in  1638. 
Indeed,  at  that  time  the  settlements  had  not  reached  into 
this  then  primeval  wilderness.  He  settled  first  in  that 
part  of  Salisbury  which  is  now  named  Amesbury,  and 
while  a  very  young  man  represented  that  town  in  the 
General  Court.  The  Whittier  Hill  which  overlooks  the 
poet's  Amesbury  home  was  named  for  the  pioneer,  and 
not  for  his  great-great-grandson.  It  is  to  this  day  called 
by  Amesbury  people  Whitcher  Hill  —  as  that  appears  to 
have  been  the  pronunciation  of  the  name  in  the  olden 
time.  For  some  reason  he  removed  across  the  river  to 
Newbury.  As  a  town  official  of  Salisbury,  he  had  occa- 
sion to  lay  out  a  highway  towards  Haverhill  —  a  road  still 
in  use.  He  came  upon  a  location  that  pleased  his  fancy, 
and  in  1647,  at  ^e  age  of  twenty-seven,  he  returned  to 
the  northern  side  of  the  river  and  built  a  log  house  on  the 
left  bank  of  Country  Brook,  about  a  mile  from  the  loca- 
tion he  selected  in  1688  for  his  permanent  residence.  He 
lived  forty-one  years  in  this  log  house,  and  here  raised  a 
family  of  ten  children,  five  of  them  stalwart  boys,  each 
over  six  feet  in  height.  He  was  sixty-eight  years  old  when 
he  undertook  to  build  the  house  now  the  shrine  visited 
yearly  by  thousands.  In  raising  its  massive  oaken  frame 
he  needed  little  help  outside  his  own  family.  As  to  the 
location  of  the  log  house,  the  writer  of  these  pages  visited 
the  spot  with  Mr.  Whittier  in  search  of  it  in  1882.  He 
said  that  when  a  boy  he  used  to  see  traces  of  its  founda- 
tion, and  hoped  to  find  them  again;  but  more  than  half  a 
century  had  passed  in  the  mean  time,  and  our  search  was 
unsuccessful.  It  was  on  the  ridge  to  the  left  of  the  road, 
quite  near  the  old  Country  Bridge. 


HAVERHILL  15 

Country  Bridge  had  the  reputation  of  being  haunted, 
when  Whittier  was  a  boy,  and  several  of  his  early  un- 
collected  poems  refer  to  this  fact.  No  one  who  could 
avoid  it  ventured  over  it  after  dark.  He  told  me  that 
once  he  determined  to  swallow  his  fears  and  brave  the 
danger.  He  approached  whistling  to  keep  his  courage 


THE    HAUNTED    BRIDGE  OF   COUNTRY   BROOK 

up,  but  a  panic  seized  him,  and  he  turned  and  ran  home 
without  daring  to  look  behind.  It  was  in  this  vicinity 
that  Thomas  Whittier  built  his  first  house  in  Haverhill. 
Further  down  the  stream  was  Millvale,  where  were  three 
mills,  one  a  gristmill.  This  mill  and  the  evil  reputation 
of  the  bridge  are  both  referred  to  in  these  lines  from 
"The  Home-Coming  of  the  Bride,"  a  fragment  first 
printed  in  "  Life  and  Letters  :  "  — 

"  They  passed  the  dam  and  the  gray  gristmill, 

Whose  walls  with  the  jar  of  grinding  shook, 
And  crossed,  for  the  moment  awed  and  still, 
The  haunted  bridge  of  the  Country  Brook." 


16  WHITTIER-LAND 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  pioneers,  when  they  had  the 
choice,  to  select  the  sites  of  their  homes  near  the  small 
water  powers  of  the  brooks  ;  the  large  rivers  they  had 
not  then  the  power  to  harness.  There  were  good  mill  sites 
on  Country  Brook  below  the  log  house,  but  probably 
some  other  settler  had  secured  them,  and  Thomas  Whit- 
tier  found  in  the  smaller  stream  on  his  own  estate  a  fairly 
good  water  power.  Fernside  Brook  is  a  tributary  of  Coun- 
try Brook.  Probably  this  decided  the  selection  of  the 
site  for  a  house  which  was  to  be  a  home  for  generation 
after  generation  of  his  descendants.  The  dam  recently 
restored  is  at  the  same  spot  where  stood  the  Whittier  mill, 
and  in  making  repairs  some  of  the  timbers  of  the  ancient 
mill  were  found.  Parts  of  the  original  walls  of  the  dam 
are  now  to  be  seen  on  each  side  of  the  brook,  but  the 
mill  had  disappeared  long  before  Whittier  was  born. 
Further  up  the  brook  were  two  other  dams,  used  as  re- 
servoirs. The  lower  dam  when  perfect  was  high  enough 
to  enable  the  family  to  bring  water  to  house  and  barn  in 
pipes. 

When  entering  the  grounds,  notice  the  "  bridle-post " 
at  the  left  of  the  gate,  and  a  massive  boulder  in  which 
rude  steps  are  cut  for  mounting  a  horse  led  up  to  its 
side  :  — 

"  The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 
With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat." 

Like  all  of  Whittier's  descriptions,  this  is  an  exact  pic- 
ture of  what  he  had  in  mind;  for  this. stone,  after  a  great 
snowstorm,  would  assume  just  this  appearance.  As  to  the 
phrase,  "  the  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof,"  I  once  asked 
him  how  this  well  could  have  had  a  roof,  as  the  "  long 
sweep  high  aloof"  would  have  interfered  with  it.  He 
stood  by  the  side  of  the  well,  and  explained  that  there 
was  no  roof,  but  that  there  was  a  shelf  on  one  side  of  the 
curb  on  which  to  rest  the  bucket.  The  snow  piled  up  on 
this  like  a  Chinese  roof.  The  isolation  of  the  homestead 


HAVERHILL  17 

referred  to  in  the  phrase,  "  no  social  smoke  curled  over 
woods  of  snow-hung  oak,"  has  not  been  broken  in  either 
of  the  centuries  this  house  has  stood.  No  other  house 
was  ever  to  be  seen  from  it  in  any  direction.  And  yet 
neighbors  are  within  a  half-mile,  only  the  hills  and  forests 
hide  their  habitations  from  view.  When  the  wind  is  right, 
the  bells  of  Haverhill  may  be  faintly  heard,  and  the  roar 
of  ocean  after  a  storm  sometimes  penetrates  as  a  hoarse 
murmur  in  this  valley. 

In  the  old  days,  before  these  hills  were  robbed  of  the 
oaken  growths  that  crowned  their  summits,  their  appar- 
ent height  was  much  increased,  and  the  isolation  ren- 
dered even  more  complete  than  now.  Sunset  came  much 
earlier  than  it  did  outside  this  valley.  The  eastern  hill, 
beyond  the  meadow,  is  more  distant  and  not  so  high,  and 
so  the  sunrises  are  comparatively  early.  Visitors  inter- 
ested in  geology  will  find  this  hill  an  unusually  good 
specimen  of  an  eschar,  a  long  ridge  of  glacial  gravel  set 
down  in  a  meadow  through  which  Fernside  Brook  curves 
on  its  way  to  its  outlet  in  Country  Brook.  Job's  Hill  at 
the  south  rises  so  steeply  from  the  right  bank  of  Fernside 
Brook,  at  the  foot  of  the  terraced  slope  in  front  of  the 
house,  that  it  is  difficult  for  many  rods  to  get  a  foothold. 
The  path  by  which  the  hill  was  scaled  and  the  stepping- 
stones  by  which  the  brook  was  crossed  are  accurately 
sketched  in  the  poem  "Telling  the  Bees,"  —  a  poem,  by 
the  way,  which  originally  had  "  Fernside  "  for  its  title  :  — 

"  Here  is  the  place;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook." 

Visitors  should  read  the  stanzas  immediately  following 
this,  and  note  the  exactness  of  the  poet's  description  of 
the  homestead  he  had  in  mind.  The  poem  was  written 
more  than  twenty  years  after  he  left  Haverhill,  and  it 
was  many  years  after  that  when  Mr.  Alfred  Ordway,  in 


i8  WHITTIER-LAND 

taking  photographs  of  the  place,  noticed  that  it  had  al- 
ready been  pictured  in  verse ;  when  he  spoke  of  it  to 
Mr.  Whittier,  the  poet  was  both  surprised  and  pleased  at 
this,  which,  he  said,  was  the  first  recognition  of  his  birth- 
place. The  public  is  indebted  to  Mr.  Ordway  for  many 
other  discoveries  of  the  same  kind,  illustrating  Whittier's 
minute  fidelity  to  nature  in  his  descriptions  of  scenery. 

Let  us  enter  the  house  by  the  eastern  porch,  noting 
the   circular   door-stone,  which  was  the  millstone   that 


r  • 


GARDEN   AT   BIRTHPLACE 

ground  the  grain  of  the  pioneers,  more  than  a  century 
before  Whittier  was  born.  It  belonged  in  the  mill  on  the 
brook  to  which  reference  has  been  made.  The  fire  which 
destroyed  the  roof  of  the  house  in  November,  1902,  did 
not  injure  this  porch,  and  there  were  other  parts  of  the 
house  which  were  scarcely  scorched.  These  are  the  ori- 
ginal walls,  and  the  handiwork  of  the  pioneers  is  exactly 
copied  in  whatever  had  to  be  restored.  This  was  made 
possible  by. photographs  that  had  been  kept,  showing  the 


HAVERHILL  19 

width  and  shape  of  every  board  and  moulding,  inside 
and  outside  the  house.  Here  again  it  is  Mr.  Ordway,  pre- 
sident of  the  board  of  trustees  having  the  birthplace  in 
charge,  who  is  to  be  especially  thanked.  It  is  proper 
here,  as  I  have  spoken  of  the  fire,  to  mention  the  heroic 
work  of  the  custodian,  Mrs.  Ela,  and  others,  who  saved 
every  article  of  the  precious  souvenirs  endangered  by  the 
fire,  so  that  nothing  was  lost. 

The  kitchen,  which  occupies  nearly  the  whole  northern 
side  of  the  house,  is  twenty-six  feet  long  and  sixteen 
wide.  The  visitor's  attention  is  usually  first  drawn  to  the 
great  fireplace  in  the  centre  of  its  southern  side.  The  cen- 
tral chimney  was  built  by  the  pioneer  more  than  two  cen- 
turies ago,  and  it  has  five  fireplaces  opening  into  it.  The 
bricks  of  the  kitchen  hearth  are  much  worn,  as  might  be 
expected  from  having  served  so  many  generations  as  the 
centre  of  their  home  life.  It  was  around  this  identical 
hearth  that  the  family  was  grouped,  as  sketched  in  the 
great  poem  which  has  consecrated  this  room,  and  made 
it  a  shrine  toward  which  the  pilgrims  of  many  future  gen- 
erations will  find  their  way.  Here  was  piled  — 

"  The  oaken  log,  green,  huge  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick  ; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom." 

Here  on  these  very  bricks  simmered  the  mug  of  cider  and 
the  "apples  sputtered  in  a  row,"  while  through  these 
northern  windows  the  homely  scene  was  repeated  on  the 
sparkling  drifts  in  mimic  flame.  The  table  now  standing 
between  these  windows  is  the  same  that  then  stood  there, 
and  many  of  the  dishes  on  the  shelves  near  by  are  the 


20  WHITTIER-LAND 

family  heirlooms  occupying  their  old  places.  Two  of  these 
pieces  of  china  were  brought  here  by  Sarah  Greenleaf, 
Whittier's  grandmother.  The  bull's-eye  watch  over  the 
mantel  is  a  fine  specimen  of  the  olden  time,  and  hangs 
on  the  identical  nail  from  which  uncle  Moses  nightly  sus- 
pended his  plump  timepiece. 

But  perhaps  the  article  which  is  most  worthy  of  atten- 
tion in  this  room  is  the  desk  at  the  eastern  corner.  This 
was  the  desk  of  Joseph  Whittier,  great-grandfather  of  the 
poet,  and  son  of  the  pioneer.  On  the  backs  and  bottoms 
of  the  drawers  of  this  desk  are  farm  memoranda  made 
with  chalk  much  more  than  a  century  ago.  One  item 
dated  in  1798  records  that  the  poet's  father  made  his 
last  excursion  to  Canada  in  that  year.  It  was  about  a 
century  old  when  the  boy  Whittier  scribbled  his  first 
rhymes  upon  it.  By  an  interesting  coincidence  he  also, 
in  his  eighty-fifth  year,  wrote  his  very  last  poem  upon  it. 
When  the  family  removed  to  Amesbury,  in  1836,  this 
desk  was  taken  with  them,  but  soon  after  was  replaced 
by  a  new  one,  and  this  went  "  out  of  commission."  The 
new  desk  was  the  one  on  which  "  Snow-Bound  "  was  writ- 
ten, and  this  may  now  be  seen  at  Amesbury.  When  Mr. 
Whittier's  niece  was  married,  he  gave  her  this  old  desk, 
which  she  took  to  Portland,  where  it  was  thoroughly  re- 
paired. When  he  visited  Portland,  he  wrote  many  letters 
and  some  poems  on  it.  In  the  summer  of  1891,  as  her 
uncle  proposed  to  make  his  home  with  his  cousins,  the 
Cartlands,  in  Newburyport,  his  niece  had  this  ancient 
desk  sent  there.  Mr.  Whittier  was  greatly  pleased,  upon 
his  arrival,  to  find  in  his  room  the  heirloom  which  was 
hallowed  by  so  many  associations  connected  not  only 
with  his  ancestry,  but  with  his  own  early  life.  Nearly  all 
of  the  literary  work  of  his  last  year  was  done  upon  this 
desk.  To  his  niece  he  wrote  :  — 

"  I  am  writing  at  the  old  desk,  which  Gertrude  has 
placed  in  my  room,  but  it  seems  difficult  to  imagine  my- 
self the  boy  who  used  to  sit  by  it  and  make  rhymes.  It 


22  WHITTIER-LAND 

is  wonderfully  rejuvenated,  and  is  a  handsome  piece  of 
furniture.  It  was  the  desk  of  my  great-grandfather,  and 
seemed  to  me  a  wretched  old  wreck  when  thee  took  it  to 
Portland.  I  did  not  suppose  it  could  be  made  either  use- 
ful or  ornamental.  I  wrote  my  first  pamphlet  on  slavery, 
*  Justice  and  Expediency,'  upon  it,  as  well  as  a  great 
many  rhymes  which  might  as  well  have  never  been  writ- 
ten. I  am  glad  that  it  has  got  a  new  lease  of  life." 

The  little  room  at  the  western  end  of  the  kitchen  was 
"  mother's  room,"  its  floor  two  steps  higher  than  that  of 
the  larger  room,  for  a  singular  reason.  In  digging  the 
cellar  the  pioneer  found  here  a  large  boulder  it  was  in- 
convenient to  remove,  and  wishing  a  milk  room  at  this 
corner,  he  was  obliged  to  make  its  floor  two  steps  higher 
than  the  rest  of  the  cellar.  This  inequality  is  reproduced 
in  each  story.  In  this  little  room  the  bed  is  furnished 
with  the  blankets  and  linen  woven  by  Whittier's  mother 
on  the  loom  that  used  to  stand  in  the  open  chamber.  Her 
initials  "  A.  H.  "  on  some  of  the  pieces  show  that  they 
date  back  to  her  life  in  Somersworth,  N.  H.  On  the  wall 
of  this  room  may  be  seen  the  baby-clothes  of  Whittier's 
father,  made  by  the  grandmother  who  brought  the  name 
of  Greenleaf  into  the  family.  The  bureau  in  this  room  is 
the  one  that  stood  there  in  the  olden  time.  The  little 
mirror  that  stands  on  it  is  the  one  by  which  Whittier 
shaved  most  of  his  life.  He  used  it  at  Amesbury,  and 
possibly  his  father  used  it  before  him  at  Haverhill. 

Mr.  Whittier  had  a  great  fund  of  stories  of  the  super- 
natural that  were  current  in  this  neighborhood  in  his 
youth,  and  one  that  had  this  very  kitchen  for  its  scene, 
he  told  with  much  impressiveness.  It  was  the  story  of  his 
aunt  Mercy  — 

"  The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate." 

It  was  out  of  this  window  in  the  kitchen  that  she  saw  the 
horse  and  its  rider  coming  down  the  road,  and  recognized 


HAVERHILL  23 

the  young  man  to  whom  she  was  betrothed.  It  was  out  of 
this  window  in  the  porch  that  she  saw  them  again,  as  she 
went  to  the  door  to  welcome  her  lover.  It  was  this  door 
she  opened,  to  find  no  trace  of  horse  or  rider.  It  was  to 
this  little  room  at  the  other  end  of  the  kitchen  that  she 


Copyright  1891,  bj  A.  A.  llnlwaj 

WESTERN   END  OF  KITCHEN 

View  of  "  mother's  room ;  "  the  poet  was  born  in  a  room  at  the  left,  beyond 
the  fireplace 

went,  bewildered  and  terrified,  to  waken  her  sister,  who 
tried  in  vain  to  pacify  her  by  saying  she  had  been  dream- 
ing by  the  fire,  when  she  should  have  been  in  bed.  And  it 
was  in  this  room  she  received  the  letter  many  days  later 
telling  her  of  the  death  of  her  lover  in  a  distant  city  at 
the  hour  of  her  vision.1  Mr.  Whittier  told  such  stories  with 
the  air  of  more  than  half  belief  in  their  truth,  especially 
in  his  later  years,  when  he  became  interested  in  the  re- 
searches of  scientists  in  the  realm  of  telepathy.  He  said 
his  aunt  was  the  most  truthful  of  women,  and  she  never 
doubted  the  reality  of  her  vision. 

The  door  at   the  southwestern  corner  of  the  kitchen 
1  This  story  is  told  more  fully  in  Life  and  Letters,  pp.  53,  54. 


24  WHITTIER-LAND 

opens  into  the  room  in  which  the  poet  was  born.  This 
was  the  parlor,  but  as  the  Friends  were  much  given  to 
hospitality,  it  was  often  needed  as  a  bedroom,  and  there 
was  in1  it  a.  bedstead  that  could  be  lifted  from  the  floor 
and  supported  by  a  hook  in  the  ceiling  when  not  in  use. 
In  the  corners  are  cabinets  containing  articles  of  use  and 
ornament  that  are  genuine  relics  of  the  Whittier  family. 
The  inlaid  mahogany  card-table  between  the  front  win- 
dows was  brought  to  this  house  just  a  century  ago  (1804) 
by  Abigail  Hussey,  the  bride  of  John  Whittier,  and  placed 
where  it  now  stands.  Like  the  desk  in  the  kitchen,  it  has 
always  been  in  the  possession  of  the  family,  and  was  re- 
stored to  the  birthplace  by  the  niece  to  whom  Whittier 
gave  it.  In  this  room  are  several  books  that  belonged  in 
the  small  library  of  Whittier's  father,  which  are  mentioned 
in  "  Snow-Bound,"  and  described  more  fully  in  the  rhymed 
catalogue,  a  part  of  which  appears  in  "  Life  and  Letters," 
p.  46.  I  here  give  the  full  list  copied  from  Whittier's  man- 
uscript, for  which  I  am  indebted  to  Miss  Sarah  S.  Thayer, 
daughter  of  Abijah  W.  Thayer,  who  edited  the  "  Haverhill 
Gazette,"  and  with  whom  Whittier  boarded  while  in  the 
Academy.  Mr.  Thayer  had  appended  to  the  manuscript 
these  words  :  "  This  was  deposited  in  my  hands  about 
1828,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  who  assured  me  that  it  was 
his  first  effort  at  versification.  It  was  written  in  1823  or 
1824,  when  Whittier  was  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old." 

NARRATIVES 

How  Captain  Riley  and  his  crew 
Were  on  Sahara's  desert  threw. 
How  Rollins  to  obtain  the  cash 
Wrote  a  dull  history  of  trash. 
O'er  Bruce's  travels  I  have  pored, 
Who  the  sources  of  the  Nile  explored. 
Malcolm  of  Salem 's  narrative  beside, 
Who  lost  his  ship's  crew,  unless  belied. 
How  David  Foss,  poor  man,  was  thrown 
Upon  an  island  all  alone. 


HAVERHILL  25 

RELIGIOUS 

The  Bible  towering  o'er  the  rest, 

Of  all  the  other  books  the  best. 

Old  Father  Baxter's  pious  call 

To  the  unconverted  all. 

William  Penn's  laborious  writing, 

And  the  books  'gainst  Christians  fighting. 

Some  books  of  sound  theology, 

Robert  Barclay's  "  Apology." 

Dyer's  "  Religion  of  the  Shakers," 

Clarkson's  also  of  the  Quakers. 

Many  more  books  I  have  read  through  — 

Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  too. 

A  book  concerning  John's  baptism, 

Elias  Smith's  "  Universalism." 

JOURNALS,  LIVES,  &c. 

The  Lives  of  Franklin  and  of  Penn, 

Of  Fox  and  Scott,  all  worthy  men. 

The  Lives  of  Pope,  of  Young  and  Prior, 

Of  Milton,  Addison,  and  Dyer ; 

Of  Doddridge,  Fenelon  and  Gray, 

Armstrong,  Akenside,  and  Gay. 

The  Life  of  Burroughs,  too,  I  Ve  read, 

As  big  a  rogue  as  e'er  was  made ; 

And  Tufts,  who,  I  will  be  civil, 

Was  worse  than  an  incarnate  devil. 

—  Written  by  John  G.  Whittier. 

The  books  of  this  library  now  to  be  seen  are  the  "  Life 
of  George  Fox,"  in  two  leather-bound  volumes,  printed  in 
London,  1709,  Sewel's  "  Painful  History,"  printed  in  1825, 
Ellwood's  "  Drab-Skirted  Muse,"  Philadelphia  edition  of 
1775,  and  Thomas  Clarkson's  "Portraiture  of  Quaker- 
ism," New  York  edition  of  1806. 

The  little  red  chest  near  the  fireplace  is  an  ancient  relic 
of  the  family,  formerly  used  for  storing  linen.  The  por- 
trait of  Whittier  over  the  fireplace  is  enlarged  from  a 
miniature  painted  by  J.  S.  Porter  about  1830,  and  it  is 
the  earliest  likeness  of  the  poet  ever  taken.  The  original 


26  WHITTIER-LAND 

miniature  may  be  seen  at  the  Amesburyhome.  The  large 
portrait  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  was  painted 
by  Joseph  Lindon  Smith,  an  artist  of  celebrity,  who  is  a 
relative  of  Whittier's.  Portraits  of  Whittier's  brother, 
his  sisters,  his  mother,  and  his  old  schoolmaster,  Joshua 
Coffin,  are  shown  in  this  room.  The  silhouette  on  the 
mantelpiece  is  of  aunt  Mercy,  his  mother's  unmarried 
sister.  A  sampler  worked  by  Lydia  Ayer,  the  girl  com- 
memorated in  the  poem  "  In  School  Days,"  is  exhibited 
in  this  room.  She  was  a  member  of  the  family  who  were 
the  nearest  neighbors  of  the  Whittiers  —  a  family  still 
represented  in  their  ancient  homestead,  where  her  grand- 
niece  now  lives.  She  died  at  the  age  of  fourteen. 

It  was  the  privilege  of  the  writer  to  accompany  Mr. 
Whittier  when  he  made  his  last  visit  to  his  birthplace,  in 
late  October,  1882.  When  in  this  birth-room,  he  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  again  a  fire  upon  its  hearth,  not  for  warmth, 
for  it  was  a  warm  day,  but  for  the  sentiment  of  it.  The 
elderly  woman  who  had  charge  of  the  house  said  she 
would  have  a  fire  built,  and  in  the  mean  time  we  went 
down  to  the  brook,  intending  to  cross  by  the  stepping- 
stones  he  had  so  often  used.  But  the  brook  was  running 
full,  the  stepping-stones  were  slippery,  and  Mr.  Whittier 
reluctantly  gave  up  crossing.  Then  we  visited  the  little 
burying-ground  of  the  family,  where  lie  the  remains  of  his 
ancestors.  When  we  returned  to  the  parlor,  we  found 
the  good  woman  had  brought  down  a  sheet-iron  air-tight 
stove  from  the  attic,  set  it  in  the  fireplace,  and  there  was 
a  crackling  fire  in  it  !  I  suggested  that  we  could  easily 
remove  the  stove  and  have  a  blaze  on  the  hearth,  but 
Mr.  Whittier  at  once  negatived  the  proposition,  saying 
we  must  not  let  the  woman  know  we  were  disappointed. 
She  had  taken  much  pains  to  please  us,  and  must  not  be 
made  aware  of  her  mistake.  He  was  always  ready  to 
suffer  inconvenience  rather  than  wound  the  sensibilities 
of  any  one. 

From  the  back  entry  at  the  western  end  of  the  kitchen 


HAVERHILL  27 

ascends  the  steep  staircase  down  which  Whittier,  when  an 
infant,  was  rolled  by  his  sister  Mary,  two  years  older  than 
he.  She  thought  if  he  were  well  wrapped  in  a  blanket  he 
would  not  be  harmed,  and  the  experiment  proved  quite 
successful,  thanks  to  her  abundant  care  in  bundling  him 
in  many  folds.  He  happily  escaped  one  other  peril  in  his 
infancy.  His  parents  took  him  with  them  on  a  winter 
drive  to  Kingston,  N.  H.  To  protect  him  from  the  cold, 
he  was  wrapped  too  closely  in  his  blankets,  and  he  came 
so  near  asphyxiation  that  for  a  time  he  was  thought  to  be 
dead.  He  was  taken  into  a  farmhouse  they  were  passing 
when  the  discovery  was  made,  and  after  a  long  and  anx- 
ious treatment  they  were  delighted  to  find  he  was  living. 
The  rooms  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house  injured  by 
the  recent  fire  have  been  perfectly  restored  to  their  ori- 
ginal condition.  At  Whittier's  last  visit  here  he  went  into 
every  room,  and  told  stories  of  the  happenings  of  his  youth 
in  each.  At  the  head  of  the  back  stairs  is  a  little  doorless 
press,  which  he  pointed  out  as  a  favorite  play-place  of 
his  and  his  brother's.  Here  they  found  room  for  their 
few  toys,  as  perhaps  three  generations  of  Whittier  chil- 
dren had  done  before  them.  And  it  is  not  unlikely  that 
some  of  their  toys  had  amused  the  youth  of  their  grand- 
father. One  of  his  earliest  memories  is  connected  with 
this  little  closet,  for  here  he  had  his  first  severe  twinge  of 
conscience.  He  had  told  a  lie  —  no  doubt  a  white  one, 
for  it  did  not  trouble  him  at  first  —  and  soon  after  was 
watching  the  rising  of  a  thunder-cloud  that  was  grumbling 
over  the  great  trees  on  the  western  hill  near  at  hand.  A 
bolt  descended  among  the  oaks,  and  the  deafening  explo- 
sion was  instantaneous.  He  saw  in  it  an  exhibition  of 
divine  wrath  over  his  sin,  and  obeyed  the  primal  instinct 
to  hide  himself.  His  mother,  searching  for  him  some  time 
after  the  storm  had  passed,  found  her  repentant  little 
boy  almost  smothered  under  a  quilt  in  this  closet,  and  as 
he  confessed  his  sin,  he  was  tenderly  shrived.  Here  in 
the  open  chamber  the  brothers  often  slept  when  visitors 


28  WHITTIER-LAND 

claimed  the  little  western  chamber  they  usually  occupied. 
They  would  sometimes  find,  sifted  through  cracks  in  the 
old  walls,  a  little  snowdrift  on  their  quilt.  The  small 
western  room  the  boys  called  theirs  was  the  scene  of  the 
story  Trowbridge  has  so  neatly  versified.  The  elder  pro- 
posed that  as  they  could  lift  each  other,  by  lifting  in  turn 
they  could  rise  to  the  ceiling,  and  there  was  no  knowing 
how  much  further  if  they  were  out  of  doors  !  The  pru- 
dent lads,  to  make  it  easy  in  case  of  failure,  stood  upon 
the  bed  in  this  little  room.  Trowbridge  says  :  — 

"  Kind  Nature  smiled  on  that  wise  child, 

Nor  could  her  love  deny  him 
The  large  fulfilment  of  his  plan  ; 
Since  he  who  lifts  his  brother  man 
In  turn  is  lifted  by  him." 

Boys  were  boys  in  those  days,  and  Whittier  told  us  of  try- 
ing to  annoy  his  younger  sister  by  pretending  to  hang 
her  cat  on  this  railing  to  the  attic  stairs.  And  girls  were 
girls  too ;  for  he  told  of  Elizabeth's  frightening  two  hired 
men  who  were  occupying  the  open  chamber.  They  had 
been  telling  each  other  ghost  stories  after  they  went  to 
bed ;  but  both  asserted  that  they  could  not  be  frightened 
by  such  things.  From  over  the  door  of  her  room  Eliza- 
beth began  throwing  pins,  one  at  a  time,  so  that  they 
would  strike  on  the  floor  near  the  brave  men.  They  were 
so  frightened  they  would  not  stay  there  another  night.  In 
the  open  attic  bunches  of  dried  herbs  hung  from  the  raft- 
ers, and  traces  of  corn  selected  for  seed.  On  the  floor  the 
boys  spread  their  store  of  nuts  "  from  brown  October's 
wood."  Originally  the  northern  side  of  the  roof  sloped 
down  to  the  first  story,  as  was  the  fashion  in  the  days  of 
the  Stuarts.  But  some  years  before  Whittier's  birth  this 
side  of  the  roof  was  raised,  giving  much  additional  cham- 
ber room. 

Not  far  from  the  house,  at  the  foot  of  the  western  hill, 
is  the  small  lot  inclosed  by  a  stone  wall,  to  which  refer- 


HAVERHILL 


29 


ence  has  been  made,  that  from  the  earliest  settlement  was 
the  burying-place  of  the  family.  Here  lie  the  remains  of 
Thomas  Whittier  and  those  of  his  descendants  who  were 
the  ancestors  of  the  poet.  A  plain  granite  shaft  in  the 
centre  of  the  lot  is  inscribed  with  the  names  of  Thomas 
Whittier  and  of  Ruth  Green,  his  wife  ;  Joseph  Whittier 
and  Mary  Peaslee,  his  wife  ;  Joseph  Whittier,  ad,  and 


THE   WHITTIER    ELM 


Sarah  Greenleaf,  his  wife.  No  headstones  mark  the  sev- 
eral graves.  Others  of  the  family  were  buried  here,  in- 
cluding Mary  Whittier,  an  aunt  of  the  poet.  His  father 
and  uncle  Moses,  originally  buried  here,  were  removed  to 
the  Amesbury  cemetery,  when  his  mother  died,  in  1857. 

Across  the  road  from  the  house  of  the  nearest  neigh- 
bors, the  Ayers,  in  a  field  of  the  Whittier  farm,  is  an  old, 
immense,  and  symmetrical  tree,  labeled  "  The  Whittier 


30  WHITTIER-LAND 

Elm,"  which  the  poet's  schoolmate,  Edmund  Ayer,  saved 
from  the  woodman's  axe  by  paying  an  annual  tribute,  at  a 
time  when  the  farm  had  gone  out  of  the  possession  of  the 
Whittiers,  and  while  the  new  proprietors  were  intent  upon 
despoiling  the  place  of  its  finest  trees.  This  is  the  tree 
referred  to  in  these  lines,  written  in  1862,  in  the  album 
of  Lydia  Amanda  Ayer  (now  Mrs.  Evans),  his  schoolmate 
Lydia's  niece :  — 

"  A  dweller  where  my  infant  eyes 
Looked  out  on  Nature's  sweet  surprise, 
Whose  home  is  in  the  ample  shade 
Of  the  old  Elm  Tree  where  I  played, 
Asks  for  her  book  a  word  of  mine  :  — 
I  give  it  in  a  single  line : 
Be  true  to  Nature  and  to  Heaven's  design  ! " 

Whittier  took  us  that  October  day  to  neighbor  Ayer's 
house,  where  the  brother  of  little  Lydia  was  still  living, 
who  also  was  a  schoolmate  of  the  poet,  and  they  talked 
of  the  old  times  with  the  greatest  relish.  The  Ayer  house 
occupies  the  site  of  a  garrison  house,  built  of  strong  oaken 
timbers,  and  used  as  a  house  of  refuge  in  the  time  of  the 
Indian  wars.  The  Whittiers.  though  close  at  hand,  never 
availed  themselves  of  its  protection,  even  when  Indian 
faces  covered  with  war-paint  peered  through  the  kitchen 
windows  upon  the  peaceful  Quaker  family.  We  were  soon 
joined  by  another  aged  schoolmate,  Aaron  Chase,  and 
with  him  we  went  to  Corliss  Hill,  where  Whittier  showed 
us  the  two  houses  in  wnich  he  first  went  to  school.  They 
are  both  now  standing,  and  are  dwelling-houses  in  each 
of  which  a  room  was  given  up  for  the  district  school  — 
one  before  the  house  described  in  "  In  School  Days  "  was 
built,  and  the  other  while  it  was  being  repaired.  He  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  school  age  when  his  sister  Mary  took 
him  to  his  first  school,  kept  by  his  life-long  friend,  Joshua 
Coffin,  to  whom  he  addressed  the  poem,  "  To  My  Old 
Schoolmaster."  As  I  happened  to  be  a  nephew  of  Coffin, 
he  told  me  stories  of  his  first  school.  It  was  kept  in  an 


HAVERHILL  31 

unfinished  ell  of  a  farmhouse  ;  but  the  room  had  been 
transformed  into  a  neatly  furnished  kitchen  when  we  vis- 
ited it.  In  the  poem  referred  to  he  alludes  to  the  quarrels 


JOSHUA  COFFIN 

'  Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church  ; 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage." 

To  Mv  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER 


of  the  good  man  and  his  tipsy  wife  heard  through  "  the 
cracked  and  crazy  wall."  He  told  this  story  of  the  tipsy 
wife :  She  sent  her  son  for  brush  to  heat  her  oven.  He 
brought  such  a  nice  load  that  she  thought  it  too  bad  to 
waste  it  in  the  oven.  So  she  sent  her  son  with  it  to  the 


32  WHITTIER-LAND 

grocery,  and  he  brought  back  the  liquor  he  received  in 
payment.  But  this  made  her  short  of  oven  wood,  and  to 
eke  out  her  supply  of  fuel  she  burned  a  loose  board  of  the 
cellar  stairs.  The  next  time  she  had  occasion  to  go  to 
the  cellar,  she  forgot  the  hiatus  she  had  made  and  broke 
her  leg.  After  Mr.  Chase  left  us,  Whittier  told  me  that  his 
old  schoolmate  was  a  nephew  of  the  last  person  usually 
accounted  a  witch  in  this  neighborhood.  She  was  the  wife 
of  Moses  Chase  of  Rocks  Village.  Her  relatives  believed 
her  a  witch,  and  one  of  her  nieces  knocked  her  down  in 
the  shape  of  a  persistent  bug  that  troubled  her.  At  that 
moment  it  happened  that  the  old  woman  fell  and  hurt  her 
head.  The  old  lady  on  one  occasion  went  before  Squire 
Ladd,  the  blacksmith  and  Justice  of  the  Peace  at  the 
Rocks,  and  took  her  oath  that  she  was  not  a  witch. 

We  next  visited  the  scene  of  "  In  School  Days,"  and 
found  some  traces  of  the  schoolhouse  that  have  since 
been  obliterated,  although  a  tablet  now  marks  its  site. 
The  door-stone  over  which  the  scholars  "  went  storming 
out  to  playing  "  was  still  there,  and  some  of  the  founda- 
tion stones  were  in  place.  "  Around  it  still  the  sumachs  " 
were  growing,  and  blackberry  vines  were  creeping.  Mr. 
Whittier  gathered  a  handful  of  the  red  sumach,  and  took 
it  to  Amesbury  with  him.  It  remained  many  days  in  a 
vase  in  his  "garden  room."  Speaking  of  his  boyhood,  he 
said  he  was  always  glad  when  it  came  his  turn  to  stay  at 
home  on  First  Day.  The  chaise,  driven  to  Amesbury  — 
nine  miles  —  every  First  and  Fifth  Day,  fortunately  was 
not  of  a  capacity  to  take  the  whole  family  at  once.  This 
gave  him  an  occasional  opportunity,  much  enjoyed,  to 
spend  the  day  musing  by  the  brook,  or  in  the  shade  of 
the  oaks  and  hemlocks  on  the  breezy  hilltops,  which  com- 
manded a  view  unsurpassed  for  beauty.  These  hills,  which 
so  closely  encompass  the  ancient  homestead  at  the  west 
and  south,  are  among  the  highest  in  the  county.  From 
them  one  gets  glimpses  of  the  ocean  in  Ipswich  Bay,  the 
undulating  hills  of  Newbury,  cultivated  to  their  tops,  on  the 


HAVERHILL 


33 


further  side  of  the  Merrimac,  the  southern  ranges  of  the 
New  Hampshire  mountains,  and  the  heights  of  Wachusett 
and  Monadnock  in  Massachusetts.  Po  Hill,  in  Amesbury, 
under  which  stands  the  Quaker  meeting-house  where 
his  parents  worshiped,  shows  its  great  round  dome  in 
the  east.  He  never  tired  of  these  views,  and  celebrated 


SCENE   OF   "IN   SCHOOL   DAYS" 


them  in  many  of  his  poems.  He  especially  dreaded  the 
winter  drives  to  meeting.  Buffalo  robes  were  not  so  plenty 
in  those  days  as  they  became  a  few  years  later,  and  our 
fathers  did  not  dress  so  warmly  as  do  we.  He  was  so 
stiffened  by  cold  on  some  of  these  drives  to  Amesbury 
that  he  told  me  "  his  teeth  could  not  chatter  until  thawed 
out."  Winter  had  its  compensations,  as  he  has  so  well 
shown  in  "Snow- Bound."  But  it  is  noticeable  that  he  does 
not  refer  in  that  poem  to  the  winter  drives  to  meeting. 


34  WHITTIER-LAND 

On  one  occasion  he  improved  the  absence  of  his  parents 
on  a  First  Day  to  go  nutting.  He  climbed  a  tall  walnut, 
and  had  a  fall  of  about  twenty  feet  which  came  near  being 
fatal.  The  Friends  did  not  theoretically  hold  one  day 
more  sacred  than  another,  and  yet  theirs  was  the  habit  of 
the  Puritan  community,  to  abstain  from  all  play  as  well 
as  from  work  on  the  Sabbath,  and  this  fall  gave  a  smart 
fillip  to  the  young  poet's  conscience. 

This  story  illustrating  VVhittier's  popularity  when  a 
child  I  did  not  get  from  him,  but  is  a  legend  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. One  of  their  nearest  neighbors,  a  Miss  Chase, 
had  a  cherry-tree  she  guarded  with  the  utmost  jealousy. 
No  bird  could  alight  on  it  in  cherry  time,  and  no  boy  ap- 
proach it,  without  bringing  her  to  the  rescue  with  a  prompt- 
ness that  frightened  them.  One  day  she  saw  a  boy  in  the 
branches  of  this  precious  tree,  and  issued  upon  the  scene 
with  dire  threats.  She  caught  sight  of  the  culprit's  face, 
and  instantly  changed  her  tone  :  "  Oh,  is  it  you,  Green- 
leaf  ?  Take  all  the  cherries  you  want !  " 

The  old  homestead  was  an  object  of  interest  as  far 
back  as  1842,  as  is  shown  by  a  letter  before  me,  written 
by  Elizabeth  Nicholson  of  Philadelphia,  who  asks  her 
friend,  Elizabeth  Whittier,  for  a  picture  of  it  :  "  When 
thee  come  to  Philadelphia  if  thee  will  bring  ever  so  rough 
a  sketch  of  the  house  where  Green  leaf  was  born,  for 
Elizabeth  Lloyd  to  copy  for  my  book,  why  —  we  '11  be 
glad  to  see  thee !  I  hope  for  the  sake  of  the  picturesque 
it  is  a  ruin  —  indeed  it  must  be,  for  Griswold  says  it  has 
been  in  the  family  a  hundred  years  !  "  It  had  then  been 
in  the  family  for  over  one  hundred  and  fifty  years.  The 
book  referred  to  by  Miss  Nicholson  was  a  manuscript 
collection  of  all  the  verses,  published  and  unpublished, 
that  Whittier  had  written  at  that  time  —  a  notable  collec- 
tion, now  in  existence.  She  had  obtained  from  the  poet  a 
preface  in  verse  for  this  album,  which  as  it  has  autobio- 
graphical material,  refers  to  the  scenery  of  his  birthplace, 
and  was  never  in  print,  is  here  given  in  a  version  he  pre- 


HAVERHILL  35 

pared  for  another  similar  album.  For  this  version  I  am 
indebted  to  the  collection  made  by  Mary  Pillsbury  of 
Newbury,  which  contains  other  original  poems  of  Whit- 
tier  never  published  :  — 

A   RETROSPECT 

O  visions  of  my  boyhood  !  shades  of  rhymes ! 

Vain  dreams  and  longings  of  my  early  times  ! 

The  work  of  intervals,  a  ploughboy's  lore, 

Oft  conned  by  hearthlight  when  day's  toil  was  o'er  ; 

Or  when  through  roof-cracks  could  at  night  behold 

Bright  stars  in  circle  with  pattens  of  gold ; 

Or  stretched  at  noon  while  oaken  branches  cast 

A  restful  shade,  where  rippling  waters  passed ; 

The  ox  unconscious  panted  at  my  side, 

The  good  dog  fondly  his  young  master  eyed, 

And  on  the  boughs  above  the  forest  bird 

Alone  rude  snatches  of  the  measure  heard; 

The  measure  that  had  sounded  to  me  long, 

And  vain  I  sought  to  weave  it  in  a  song, 

Or  trace  it,  when  the  world's  enchantment  first 

To  longing  eye,  as  kindling  dawn's  light,  burst. 

Then  flattery's  voice,  in  woman's  gentlest  tone, 

Woke  thoughts  and  feelings  heretofore  unknown, 

And  homes  of  wealth  and  beauty,  wit  and  mirth, 

By  taste  refined,  by  eloquence  and  worth, 

Taught  and  diffused  the  intellect's  high  joy, 

And  gladly  welcomed  e'en  a  rustic  boy ; 

Or  when  ambition's  lip  of  flame  and  fear 

Burned  like  the  tempter's  to  my  listening  ear, 

And  a  proud  spirit,  hidden  deep  and  long, 

Rose  up  for  strife,  stern,  resolute,  and  strong, 

Eager  for  toil,  and  proudly  looking  up 

To  higher  levels  for  the  world,  with  hope. 

In  these  lines  Whittier  has  told  in  brief  the  whole  story 
of  his  life,  from  his  early  dreaming  by  this  brookside 
and  at  this  hearthstone,  to  the  waking  of  his  political 
ambitions,  and  later  to  his  earnest  strife  to  bring  up  the 
world  "  to  higher  levels." 

It  happened  that  the  day  on  which  Whittier  visited  his 


36  WHITTIER-LAND 

birthplace  for  the  last  time  was  toward  the  close  of  a 
spirited  political  campaign  in  which  Whittier  took  much 
interest,  as  General  Butler  was  a  candidate  he  was  oppos- 
ing. Speaking  of  Butler  reminded  him  of  the  pet  ox  of 
his  boyhood,  which  had  the  odd  name  of  "  Old  Butler," 
between  whose  horns  he  would  sit  as  the  animal  chewed 
his  cud  under  the  hillside  oaks.  This  was  the  same  ox 
that,  in  rushing  down  one  of  these  steep  hills  for  salt, 
could  not  stop  because  of  his  momentum,  but  saved  his 
young  master's  life  by  leaping  over  his  head.  No  doubt 
this  ox  was  in  mind  when  he  wrote  the  line  just  quoted, 
"The  ox  unconscious  panted  at  my  side."  One  story 
reminded  him  of  another,  and  he  said  this  ox  was  named 
for  another  that  had  its  day  in  a  former  generation  on  a 
neighboring  farm. 

This  is  the  story  he  told  of  the  original  "  Old  Butler : " 
A  family  named  Morse  lived  not  far  from  here,  and  in- 
cluded several  boys  fond  of  practical  joking.  The  older 
brothers  one  day  bound  the  youngest  upon  the  back  of 
the  ox,  Butler.  Frightened  by  the  unusual  burden,  the 
animal  dashed  away  to  the  woods  on  Job's  Hill.  The 
lad  was  fearfully  bruised  before  he  was  rescued.  Indignant 
at  the  treatment  he  had  received,  he  left  home  the  next 
morning,  and  was  not  heard  from  until  in  his  old  age  he 
returned  to  the  Haverhill  farm,  and  found  his  brothers 
still  living.  They  killed  for  him  the  fatted  calf,  and  after 
the  supper,  as  they  sat  before  the  great  wood  fire,  they 
talked  over  the  events  of  their  boyhood.  One  of  the  bro- 
thers referred  to  the  subject  all  had  hitherto  avoided,  and 
said,  "  Don't  you  remember  your  ride  upon  Old  Butler?  " 
"  Yes,  I  do  remember  it,"  was  the  answer,  "  and  I  don't 
thank  you  for  bringing  it  up  at  this  time."  The  next 
morning  he  left  the  place,  and  was  never  again  heard 
from.  Mr.  Whittier  told  this  story  to  explain  the  odd 
name  he  had  given  his  ox. 

The  story  has  been  often  told  of  Garrison's  coming  out 
to  East  Haverhill  to  find  a  contributor  who  had  interested 


HAVERHILL  37 

him ;  and  it  has  been  stated  that  the  Quaker  lad  was 
called  in  from  work  in  the  field  to  see  the  dapper  young 
editor  and  his  lady  friend.  He  once  told  me  that  the 
situation  was  a  bit  more  awkward  for  him.  It  happened 
that  on  this  eventful  morning  the  young  poet  had  discov- 
ered that  a  hen  had  stolen  her  nest  under  the  barn,  and 
he  was  crawling  on  his  hands  and  knees,  digging  his  dusty 
way  towards  the  hen,  when  his  sister  Mary  came  out  to 
summon  him  to  receive  city  visitors.  It  was  only  by  her 
urgent  persuasion  that  he  was  induced  to  give  up  burrow- 
ing for  the  eggs.  By  making  a  wide  detour,  he  entered 
the  house  without  being  seen,  and  in  haste  effected  a 
change  of  raiment.  In  telling  the  story,  he  said  he  put  on 
in  his  haste  a  pair  of  trousers  that  came  scarcely  to  his 
ankles,  and  he  must  have  been  a  laughable  spectacle. 
He  would  have  felt  much  more  at  ease  if  he  had  come 
in  just  as  he  was  when  he  emerged  from  under  the  barn. 
Garrison,  with  the  social  tact  that  ever  distinguished  him, 
put  the  shy  boy  at  his  ease  at  once. 

After  the  death  of  their  father,  Greenleaf  and  his  bro- 
ther Franklin  for  a  time  worked  the  farm  together,  and 
when  in  later  life  they  indulged  in  reminiscences  of  this 
agricultural  experience,  this  is  a  story  with  which  the  poet 
liked  to  tease  his  brother :  Franklin  was  sent  to  swap 
cows  with  a  venerable  Quaker  living  at  considerable  dis- 
tance from  their  homestead.  He  came  back  with  a  beau- 
tiful animal,  warranted  as  he  supposed  to  be  a  good  cow, 
and  he  depended  upon  a  verbal  warrant  from  a  member 
of  a  Society  which  was  justly  proud  of  its  reliability  in  all 
business  transactions.  It  was  soon  found  that  she  was 
worthless  as  a  milker,  and  Franklin  took  her  back,  de- 
manding a  cancellation  of  the  bargain  because  the  cow 
was  not  as  represented.  But  the  old  Quaker  was  ready 
for  him  :  "  What  did  I  tell  thee  ?  Did  I  say  she  was  a 
good  cow  ?  No,  I  told  thee  she  was  a  harnsome  cow  —  and 
thee  cannot  deny  she  is  harnsome  !  " 

One  of  Whittier's  ancestors  was  fined  for  cutting  oaks 

344016 


38  WHITTIER-LAND 

on  the  common.  When  this  fact  was  discovered,  he  was 
asked  if  he  would  wish  this  circumstance  to  be  omitted  in 
his  biography.  "  By  no  means,"  he  said,  "  tell  the  whole 
story.  It  shows  we  had  some  enterprising  ancestors,  even 
if  a  bit  unscrupulous." 

When  Whittier  last  visited  his  birthplace,  ten  years 
before  his  death,  he  was  saddened  by  many  evidences  he 
saw  that  the  estate  was  not  being  thriftily  managed,  and 
expressed  the  wish  to  buy  and  restore  the  place  to  some- 
thing like  its  condition  when  it  remained  in  his  family. 
Not  one  of  his  near  relatives  was  then  so  situated  as 
to  be  able  to  take  charge  of  it,  and  his  idea  of  again 
making  it  a  Whittier  homestead  was  reluctantly  given  up. 
When  he  learned,  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  that  Mr. 
Ordway,  Mayor  Burnham,  and  other  public-spirited  citi- 
zens of  Haverhill,  proposed  to  buy  and  care  for  the  place, 
already  become  a  shrine  for  many  visitors,  he  asked 
permission  to  pay  whatever  might  be  needed  for  its  pur- 
chase. He  died  before  negotiations  could  be  completed, 
and  Hon.  James  H.  Carleton  generously  bought  the 
homestead,  and  transferred  the  proprietorship  to  a  self- 
perpetuating  board  of  nine  trustees,  viz.  :  Alfred  A.  Ord- 
way, George  C.  How,  Charles  Butters,  Dudley  Porter, 
Thomas  E.  Burnham,  Clarence  E.  Kelley,  Susan  B.  San- 
ders, Sarah  M.  F.  Duncan,  and  Annie  W.  Frankle.  In 
the  deed  of  gift  the  trustees  were  enjoined  "  to  preserve 
as  nearly  as  may  be  the  natural  features  of  the  landscape ; 
preserve  and  restore  the  buildings  thereon  as  nearly  as 
may  be  in  the  same  condition  as  when  occupied  by  Whit- 
tier ;  and  to  afford  all  persons,  at  such  suitable  times  and 
under  such  proper  restrictions  as  said  trustees  may  pre- 
scribe, the  right  and  privilege  of  access  to  the  same,  that 
thereby  the  memory  and  love  for  the  poet  and  the  man 
may  be  cherished  and  perpetuated."  Mr.  Ordway  was 
made  president  of  the  board,  and  in  his  hands  the  office 
has  been  no  sinecure.  His  unflagging  zeal  and  his  uner- 
ring good  taste  have  resulted  not  only  in  putting  the 


HAVERHILL  39 

ancient  house  into  the  perfect  order  of  the  olden  time,  but 
in  fertilizing  the  wornout  fields,  and  preserving  for  future 
ages  one  of  the  finest  specimens  in  the  country  of  the 
colonial  farmhouse  of  New  England.  Mr.  Whittier's 
niece,  to  whom  he  left  his  house  in  Amesbury,  returned 
to  the  birthplace  many  of  the  household  treasures  that 
were  carried  from  there  in  1836.  The  articles  in  the  house 
purporting  to  be  Whittier  heirlooms  may  be  depended  on 
as  genuine. 

I  do  not  think  that  Whittier  was  ever  aware  that  Harriet 
Livermore,  the  "  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest,"  of 
whom  he  gave  such  a  vivid  portrait  in  "  Snow-Bound," 
returned  to  America  from  her  travels  in  the  Holy  Land 
at  about  the  time  that  poem  was  published,  and  died  the 
next  year,  1867.  I  have  from  good  authority  this  curious 
story  of  her  first  reading  of  those  lines  which  meant  so 
much  in  a  peculiar  way  to  the  immortality  of  her  name. 
She  was  ill,  and  called  with  a  prescription  at  a  drugstore 
in  Burlington,  N.  J.  It  happened  that  the  druggist  was  a 
personal  friend  of  Whittier's —  Mr.  Allinson,  father  of  the 
lad  for  whom  the  poem  "  My  Namesake  "  was  written. 
This  was  in  March,  1866,  and  Whittier  had  just  sent  his 
friend  an  early  copy  of  his  now  famous  poem.  He  had 
not  had  time  to  open  the  book  when  the  prescription  was 
handed  him.  As  it  would  take  considerable  time  to  com- 
pound the  medicine,  he  asked  the  aged  lady  to  take  a  seat, 
and  handed  her  the  book  he  had  just  received  to  read 
while  waiting.  When  he  gave  her  the  medicine  and  she 
returned  the  book,  he  noticed  she  was  much  perturbed, 
and  was  mystified  by  her  exclamation  :  "  This  book  tells 
a  pack  of  lies  about  me  !  "  He  naturally  supposed  she 
was  crazy,  both  from  her  remark  and  from  her  appearance. 
It  was  not  until  some  time  later  that  he  learned  that  his 
customer  was  Harriet  Livermore  herself  ! 

In  another  New  Jersey  town  was  living  at  the  same  time 
another  of  the  "  Snow-Bound  "  characters,  —  the  teacher 
of  the  district  school,  whose  name  even  the  poet  had  for- 


40  WHITTIER-LAND 

gotten  when  this  sketch  of  him  was  written.  In  the  last 
year  of  his  life  Whittier  recalled  that  his  name  was  Has- 
kell,  but  could  tell  me  no  more,  except  that  he  was  from 
Maine,  and  was  a  Dartmouth  student.  His  story  is  told 
in  "Life  and  Letters,"  and  is  now  referred  to  only  to  note 
the  curious  fact  that  although  he  lived  until  1876,  and 
was  a  cultivated  man  who  no  doubt  was  familiar  with  Whit- 
tier's  work,  yet  he  was  never  aware  that  he  had  the  poet 
for  a  pupil,  and  died  without  knowing  that  his  own  portrait 
had  been  drawn  by  the  East  Haverhill  lad  with  whom 
he  had  played  in  this  old  kitchen.  I  have  this  from  my 
friend,  John  Townsend  Trowbridge,  who  was  personally 
acquainted  with  Haskell  in  the  last  years  of  his  life. 

It  was  in  1698,  ten  years  after  this  house  was  built, 
that  the  Indians  in  a  foray  upon  Haverhill  burned  many 
houses  and  killed  or  captured  forty  persons,  including 
the  heroic  Hannah  Dustin,  in  whom  they  caught  a  veri- 
table tartar.  Her  statue  with  uplifted  tomahawk  stands 
in  front  of  the  City  Hall.  It  is  possible  that  on  her  re- 
turn to  Haverhill  she  brought  her  ten  Indian  scalps  into 
this  kitchen. 

Whittier  used  to  tell  many  amusing  stories  of  his  boy- 
hood days.  Here  is  one  he  heard  in  the  old  kitchen  of 
the  Whittier  homestead  at  Haverhill,  as  told  by  the  aged 
pastor  of  the  Congregational  church  in  the  neighborhood, 
who  used  to  call  upon  the  Quaker  family  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  his  parish.  These  extra-official  visits  were  much 
prized,  especially  by  the  boys,  for  he  told  them  many  a 
tale  of  his  own  boyhood  in  Revolutionary  times.  This 
story  of  "  the  power  of  figures  "  I  can  give  almost  in 
Whittier's  words,  as  I  made  notes  while  he  was  telling  it  : 

The  old  clergyman  sat  by  the  kitchen  fire  with  his  mug 
of  cider  and  told  of  his  college  life.  He  was  a  poor  stu- 
dent, and  when  he  went  home  at  vacation  time,  he  tramped 
the  long  journey  on  foot,  stopping  at  hospitable  farm- 
houses on  the  way  for  refreshment.  One  evening  an  old 
farmer  invited  him  in,  and  as  they  sat  by  the  fire,  after 


HAVERHILL  41 

a  good  supper,  they  talked  of  the  things  the  student  was 
learning  at  college.    At  length  the  farmer  suggested  :  — 
"  No  doubt  you  know  the  power  of  figures  ? " 
The  student  modestly  allowed  he  had  learned  some- 


HARRIET   LIVKRMORE1 

thing  of  algebra  and  some  branches  of  the  higher  mathe- 
matics. 

"  I  know  it !  I  know  it !  You  are  just  the  man  I  want  to 
see.  You  know  the  power  of  figures  !  I  have  lost  a  cow  ; 
now  use  your  power  of  figures  and  find  her  for  me." 

1  This  picture  is  reproduced  from  a  drawing  by  Miss  Francesca 
Alexander  in  her  exquisite  volume,  Tuscan  Songs.  It  is  the  face  of 
an  Italian  peasant,  but  bears  so  extraordinary  a  resemblance  to 
Harriet  Livermore  (as  testified  by  several  who  knew  her)  that  it  is 
here  given  as  representing  her  better  than  any  known  portrait. 


42  WHITTIER-LAND 

The  student  disclaimed  such  power,  but  it  was  of  no 
use.  The  farmer  insisted  that  one  who  knew  the  power  of 
figures  must  be  able  to  locate  his  cow.  Else,  of  what  use 
to  go  to  college ;  why  not  stay  at  home  and  find  the  cows 
after  the  manner  of  the  unlearned  ?  So  the  student  decided 
to  quiz  a  little.  He  took  a  piece  of  chalk  and  drew  crazy 
diagrams  on  the  floor.  The  farmer  thought  he  recognized 
in  the  lines  the  roads  and  fences  of  the  vicinity,  rubbed 
his  hands,  and  exclaimed  :  — 

"  You  are  coming  to  it !  Don't  tell  me  you  don't  know 
the  power  of  figures  ! " 

At  last,  when  the  poor  student  had  exhausted  the  power 
of  his  invention,  he  threw  down  the  chalk,  and  pointing 
to  the  spot  where  it  fell,  said  :  — 

"  Your  cow  is  there  !  " 

He  had  a  good  bed,  but  could  not  rest  easy  on  it  for 
the  thought  of  how  he  was  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  in  the 
morning,  when  it  would  be  surely  known  that  his  figures 
had  lied.  He  decided  that  he  would  steal  off  before  any 
of  the  family  had  arisen.  In  the  early  dawn  he  was  con- 
gratulating himself  upon  having  got  out  of  the  house  un- 
observed, when  he  was  met  at  the  gate  by  the  old  farmer 
himself,  who  was  leading  the  cow  home  in  triumph.  He 
had  found  her  exactly  where  the  figures  had  foretold.  Of 
course  the  mathematician  must  go  back  to  breakfast  — 
what  was  he  running  off  for,  after  doing  such  a  service  by 
his  learning  ? 

They  stood  again  by  the  cabalistic  diagram  on  the  floor 
of  the  kitchen. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  you  don't  know  the  power  of 
figures,"  exclaimed  the  good  man,  "  for  the  cow  was  just 
there !  " 

For  once,  the  clergyman  said,  Satan  had  done  him  a 
good  turn. 

Nearly  all  the  early  letters  and  poems  of  Whittier, 
written  before  he  gave  up  every  selfish  ambition  and 
devoted  his  life  to  philanthropic  work,  show  how  great 


HAVERHILL 


43 


was  the  change  that  came  over  his  spirit  when  about 
twenty-five  years  of  age.  Before  that  time  he  imagined 
that  the  world  was  treating  him  harshly,  and  he  was  bra- 
cing himself  for  a  contest  with  it,  with  a  feeling  that  he 
was  surrounded  by  enemies.  His  tone  was  almost  inva- 
riably pessimistic.  After  the  change  referred  to,  he  habit- 
ually saw  friends  on  every  side,  gave  up  selfish  ambitions, 


SCENE  ON  COUNTRY   BROOK 


and  a  cheerful  optimism  pervaded  his  outlook  upon  life. 
The  following  extract  from  a  letter  written  in  April,  1831, 
while  editing  the  "  New  England  Review,"  to  a  literary 
lady  in  New  Haven,  is  in  the  prevailing  tone  of  what  he 
wrote  in  the  earlier  period.  This  letter  has  only  lately 
come  into  my  possession,  and  is  now  first  quoted  :  — 

"  Disappointment  in  a  thousand  ways  has  gone  over 
my  heart,  and  left  it  dust.  Yet  I  still  look  forward  with 
high  anticipations.  I  have  placed  the  goal  of  my  ambi- 
tions high  —  but  with  the  blessing  of  God  it  shall  be 


44  WHITTIER-LAND 

reached.  The  world  has  at  last  breathed  into  my  bosom 
a  portion  of  its  own  bitterness,  and  I  now  feel  as  if  I 
would  wrestle  manfully  in  the  strife  of  men.  If  my  life  is 
spared,  the  world  shall  know  me  in  a  loftier  capacity  than 
as  a  writer  of  rhymes.  [The  italics  are  his  own.]  There  — 
is  not  that  boasting  ?  —  But  I  have  said  it  with  a  strong 
pulse  and  a  swelling  heart,  and  I  shall  strive  to  real- 
ize it." 

In  another  letter,  written  at  about  the  same  time  to  the 
same  correspondent,  he  says :  "  As  for  tears,  I  have  not 
shed  anything  of  the  kind  since  my  last  flogging  under 
the  birchen  despotism  of  the  Nadir  Shah  of  our  village 
school.  I  have  sometimes  wished  I  could  shed  tears  — 
especially  when  angry  with  myself  or  with  the  world. 
There  is  an  iron  fixedness  about  my  heart  on  such  occa- 
sions which  I  would  gladly  melt  away." 

From  the  birthplace  to  the  Amesbury  home  is  a  dis- 
tance of  nine  miles,  traversed  by  electric  cars  in  less  than 
an  hour.  Midway  is  the  thriving  village  of  Merrimac, 
formerly  known  as  West  Amesbury.  It  was  at  Birchy 
Meadow  in  this  vicinity  that  Whittier  taught  his  first  and 
only  term  of  district  school,  in  the  winter  of  1827-28. 
The  road  is  at  considerable  distance  from  the  Merrimac 
River,  and  at  several  points  it  surmounts  hills  which  afford 
remarkably  fine  views  of  the  wide  and  fertile  river  valley, 
with  occasional  glimpses  of  the  river  itself.  At  Pond  Hills, 
near  the  village  of  Amesbury,  the  landscape  presented  to 
view  is  one  of  the  widest  and  loveliest  in  all  this  region. 
It  is  a  panorama  of  the  beautifully  rounded  hills  peculiar 
to  this  section,  with  a  tidal  river  winding  among  them  with 
many  a  graceful  curve.  The  electric  road  we  have  taken 
is  about  two  miles  from  the  left  bank  of  the  river,  across 
which  we  look  to  the  Newbury  hills,  cultivated  to  their 
tops,  with  here  and  there  a  church  spire  indicating  the 
location  of  the  distant  villages.  Every  part  of  this  lovely 
valley  has  been  commemorated  in  Whittier's  writings, 
prose  and  verse. 


HAVERHILL 


45 


If,  instead  of  the  trolley,  we  take  the  carriage  road  from 
Haverhill  along  the  bank  of  the  river,  we  soon  come  to 
what  are  left  of  "the  sycamores,"  planted  in  1739  by 
Hugh  Tallant,  in  front  of  the  Saltonstall  mansion.  This 


THE   SYCAMORES 

mansion  is  now  occupied  by  the  Haverhill  Historical  So- 
ciety, and  most  of  the  famous  row  of  "  Occidental  plane- 
trees  "  were  cut  down  many  years  ago,  a  sacrifice  to  street 
improvement.  Three  of  the  ancient  trees  still  stand,  and 
will  probably  round  out  the  second  century  of  their  ex- 
istence. They  are  about  eighty  feet  in  height,  and  measure 
nearly  twenty  feet  around  their  trunks.  Under  these  trees 
Washington  "  drew  rein,"  and  Whittier  repeats  the  legend 
that  he  said  :  — 


46  WHITTIER-LAND 

"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land" 

About  a  mile  below  on  the  northeasterly  side  of  Mill- 
vale,  a  hill  picturesquely  crowned  with  pines  attracts  at- 
tention. This  is  the  Ramoth  Hill  immortalized  in  the 
lovely  poem  "  My  Playmate  :  "  — 

"  The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  Hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low. 

"  And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  !  " 

Until  recently  there  has  been  much  doubt  as  to  the  loca- 
tion of  Ramoth  Hill,  Whittier  himself  giving  no  definite 
answer  when  asked  in  regard  to  it.  Indeed,  the  poem  as 
originally  written  had  the  title  "  Eleanor,"  and  the  hill 
was  given  the  name  of  Menahga.  But  Mr.  J.  T.  Fields,  to 
whom  the  manuscript  was  submitted,  did  not  like  this 
name,  and  Whittier  changed  it  to  Ramoth,  which  suited 
his  editor's  taste.  Mr.  Alfred  A.  Ordway,  the  best  author- 
ity on  all  matters  pertaining  to  Whittier's  allusions  to 
places  in  this  region,  has  discovered  that  the  name  Me- 
nahga was  given  to  this  particular  hill  in  Haverhill  by 
Mrs.  Mary  S.  West  of  Elmwood,  one  of  a  family  all  the 
members  of  which  were  dear  to  Whittier  from  his  boy- 
hood to  the  close  of  his  life.  A  letter  of  Whittier's  to 
Mrs.  West  has  come  to  light,  written  about  the  time  this 
poem  was  composed,  in  which  he  commends  the  selec- 
tion of  the  name  of  this  hill,  and  intimates  that  he  shall 
use  it  in  a  poem. 

On  the  Country  Bridge  road,  leading  from  the  birth- 
place to  Rocks  Village,  is  an  ancient  edifice,  known  as  the 
"  Old  Garrison  House,"  which  is  of  interest  to  Whittier- 
Land  pilgrims  because  it  was  the  home  of  Whittier's  great- 
grandmother,  Mary  Peaslee,  who  brought  Quakerism  into 
the  Whittier  family.  Thomas  Whittier,  the  pioneer,  did 


HAVERHILL  47 

not  belong  to  the  Society  of  Friends,  though  favorably 
disposed  toward  the  sect.  His  youngest  son,  Joseph, 
brought  the  young  Quakeress  into  the  family,  and  their 
descendants  for  several  generations,  down  to  the  time  of 
the  poet,  belonged  to  the  sect  founded  by  her  father's 
friend,  George  Fox.  Joseph  Peaslee  built  this  house  with 
bricks  brought  from  England  before  1675.  As  it  was  one 
of  the  largest  and  strongest  houses  in  the  town,  in  the 
time  of  King  Philip's  war  it  was  set  apart  by  the  town 
authorities  as  a  house  of  refuge  for  the  families  of  the 


OLD  GARRISON   HOUSE  (PEASLEE  HOUSE) 

neighborhood,  and  as  a  rallying  point  for  the  troops  kept 
on  the  scout.  There  are  many  port-holes  through  its  thick 
walls. 

A  little  farther  on  we  come  to  Rocks  Village,  pictured 
so  perfectly  by  Whittier  in  his  poem  "The  Countess," 
that  it  will  be  at  once  recognized  :  — 

"  Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 

Between  its  houses  brown, 
To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 
The  street  comes  straggling  down." 


48  WHITTIER-LAND 

The  bridge  across  the  Merrimac  at  this  point  was  a  cov- 
ered and  gloomy  structure  at  the  time  this  poem  was 
written.  It  has  since  been  partially  remodeled,  and  many 
of  the  houses  of  the  "  stranded  village,"  then  brown  and 
paintless,  have  received  modern  improvements.  But  there 
is  enough  of  antiquity  still  clinging  to  the  place  to  make 
it  recognizable  from  Whittier's  lines.  This  was  the  market 
to  which  the  Whittiers  brought  much  of  the  produce  of 
their  farm  to  barter  for  household  supplies.  This  was  the 
home  of  Dr.  Elias  Weld,  the  "wise  old  doctor  "  of  "  Snow- 
Bound,"  and  it  was  to  him  "  The  Countess  "was  inscribed 


ROCKS  VILLAGE  AND  BRIDGE 

Home  of  the  Countess  was  at  further  end  of  the  bridge,  in  house  now  standing, 
afterward  occupied  by  Whittier's  benefactor,  Dr. Weld 

—  the  poem  which  every  year  brings  many  visitors  hither, 
for  the  grave  of  the  Countess  is  near. 

Whittier  was  still  in  his  teens  when  this  eccentric  phy- 
sician left  Rocks  Village  and  removed  to  Hallowell, 
Maine,  and  almost  half  a  century  had  intervened  before  he 
wrote  that  remarkable  tribute  to  the  friend  and  benefactor 
of  his  youth,  which  is  found  in  the  prelude  to  "  The 


HAVERHILL 


49 


RIVER  VALLEY,    NEAR   GRAVE  OF   COUNTESS 

"  For,  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 
But  on  the  river's  further  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified." 

THE  RIVER  PATH 

Countess."  The  good  old  man  died  at  Hudson,  Ohio,  a 
few  months  after  the  publication  of  the  lines  that  meant 
so  much  to  his  fame,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  they 
consoled  the  last  hours  of  his  long  life.  Whittier  did  not 
know  whether  or  not  the  benefactor  of  his  boyhood  was 
living  in  1863,  when  he  wrote  the  poem,  as  is  shown  in 
the  lines :  — 

"  I  know  not,  Time  and  Space  so  intervene, 
Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  serene, 
Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's  citizen." 

And  yet  they  were  in  correspondence  in  the  previous  year, 
as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  I  find  in  an  old  album  of 
Whittier's  a  photograph  labeled  by  him  "  Dr.  Weld,"  and 
this  photograph,  I  am  assured  by  Mrs.  Tracy,  a  grand- 
niece  of  Weld,  was  taken  when  he  was  ninety  years  of 
age.  I  think  it  probable  that  the  sending  of  this  photo- 


So  WHITTIER-LAND 

graph  by  the  aged  physician  put  Whittier  in  mind  to  write 
his  Rocks  Village  poem,  with  the  tribute  of  remembrance 
and  affection  contained  in  its  prelude.  As  to  the  ancient 
sulky  which  — 

"  Down  the  village  lanes 
Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills  and  pains," 

it  was  a  chaise  with  a  white  canvas  top,  and  the  doctor 
always  dressed  in  gray,  and  drove  a  sober  white  horse. 


DR.    ELIAS   WELD,   AT   THE   AGE   OF   NINETY 

I  have  seen  a  letter  of  Whittier's  written  to  Dr.  Weld, 
then  at  Hallowell,  in  March,  1828,  in  which  he  says  :  "I 
am  happy  to  think  that  I  am  not  forgotten  by  those  for 
whom  I  have  always  entertained  the  most  sincere  regard. 
I  recollect  perfectly  well  that  (on  one  occasion  in  particu- 
lar) after  hearing  thy  animated  praises  of  Milton  and 


HAVERHILL  51 

Thomson  I  attempted  to  bring  a  few  words  to  rhyme  and 
measure  ;  but  whether  it  was  poetry  run  mad,  or,  as  Burns 
says,  '  something  that  was  rightly  neither,'  I  cannot  now 
ascertain  ;  I  am  certain,  however,  that  it  was  in  a  great 
measure  owing  to  thy  admiration  of  those  poets  that  I 
ventured  on  that  path  which  their  memory  has  hallowed, 
in  pursuit  of  —  I  myself  hardly  know  what  —  time  alone 
must  determine.  ...  I  am  a  tall,  dark-complexioned,  and, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  rather  ordinary-looking  fellow,  bashful, 
yet  proud  as  any  poet  should  be,  and  believing  with  the 
honest  Scotchman  that  '  I  hae  muckle  reason  to  be  thank- 
ful that  I  am  as  I  am.'  "  1  It  is  of  interest  further  to  state 
that  Whittier's  life-long  friend  and  co-laborer  in  the  anti- 
slavery  field,  Theodore  D.  Weld,  was  a  nephew  of  "the 
wise  old  doctor."  Also  that  another  nephew,  who  was 
adopted  as  a  son  by  the  childless  physician,  was  named 
"  Greenleaf  "  for  the  young  poet  in  whom  he  took  so  much 
interest.  The  grave  of  the  Countess  in  the  cemetery  near 
Rocks  Village  is  now  better  cared  for  than  when  the  poem 
was  written.  This  is  not  the  cemetery  referred  to  in  the 
poem  "  The  Old  Bury  ing-Ground,"  which  is  near  the  East 
Haverhill  church. 

1  This  letter  has  been  published  in  full  in  a  limited  edition,  by 
Mr.  Goodspeed,  together  with  a  New  Year's  Address  referred  to  in 
it  as  having  given  offense  to  some  of  the  citizens  of  Rocks  Village. 
A  portion  of  this  Address  (which  appeared  in  the  Haverhill  Gazette, 
January  5,  1828)  is  given  in  Life  and  Letters,  pp.  62,  63.  The  lines 
that  seem  to  have  given  offense  are  these  :  — 

"  Rocks  folks  are  wide  awake  —  their  old  bridge  tumbled 

Some  years  ago,  and  left  them  all  forsaken  ; 
But  they  have  risen,  tired  of  being  humbled, 

And  the  first  steps  towards  a  new  one  taken. 
They  're  all  alive  —  their  trade  becomes  more  clever, 
And  mobs  and  riots  flourish  well  as  ever." 

Thirty-five  years  later,  perhaps  remembering  the  offense  he  had 
given  in  his  youth  by  his  portrayal  of  the  liveliness  of  the  place,  he 
shaded  his  picture  in  The  Countess  with  a  different  pencil,  and  we 
have  a  "stranded  village  "  sketched  to  the  life 


52  WHITTIER-LAND 

In  1844,  Whittier  was  the  Liberty  Party  candidate  for 
representative  to  the  General  Court  from  Amesbury,  run- 
ning against  Whig  and  Democratic  candidates.  A  major- 
ity vote  being  required  there  were  five  attempts  to  elect, 
in  each  of  which  Whittier  steadily  gained,  and  it  was  at 
last  evident  he  would  be  elected  at  the  next  trial.  Where- 
upon the  two  opposing  parties  united,  and  the  town  voted 
to  have  no  representative  for  1845.  This  was  at  the  time 
of  the  agitation  against  the  annexation  of  Texas,  and 
Whittier  was  very  anxious  to  be  elected.  Towns  then 
paid  the  salaries  of  their  representatives,  and  could,  if 
they  chose,  remain  unrepresented. 

At  his  last  visit  to  his  birthplace,  in  1882,  Whittier 
called  my  attention  to  the  millstone  which  serves  as  a 
step  at  the  door  of  the  eastern  porch,  to  which  reference 
is  made  on  page  18.  It  was  soon  after  this  that  he  wrote 
his  fine  poem  "  Birchbrook  Mill,"  one  stanza  of  which  was 
evidently  inspired  by  noticing  this  doorstep,  and  by  mem- 
ories of  the  mill  of  his  ancestors  on  Fernside  Brook,  the 
site  of  which  he  had  so  recently  visited  : 

"  The  timbers  of  that  mill  have  fed 

Long  since  a  farmer's  fires  ; 
His  doorsteps  are  the  stones  that  ground 
The  harvest  of  his  sires." 


AMESBURY 


II 

AMESBURY 

FOLLOWING  down  the  left  bank  of  the  river,  we  come,  near 
the  village  of  Amesbury,  to  a  sheltered  nook  between  the 
steep  northern  hill  and  the  broad  winding  river,  known  as 
"  Pleasant  Valley."  At  some  points  there  is  scant  room 
for  the  river  road  between  the  high  bluff  and  the  water; 
at  others  a  wedge  of  fertile  intervale  pushes  back  the 
steep  bank.  The  comfortable  houses  of  an  ancient  Quaker 
settlement  are  perched  and  scattered  along  this  road  in 
picturesque  fashion.  It  was  a  favorite  walk  of  Whittier 
and  his  sister,  and  it  is  commemorated  in  "  The  River 
Path,"  — 

"  Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 

"  Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine  showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendor  downward  flowed. 

"  Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  rolled ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold ; 

"  And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  !  " 

When  Mr.  Whittier  returned  to  Amesbury  from  the  last 
visit  to  his  birthplace,  referred  to  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter, it  was  by  the  road  passing  the  Old  Garrison  House, 
the  Countess'  grave,  Rocks  Village,  and  Pleasant  Valley. 
He  pointed  out  each  feature  of  the  scene  that  reminded 
him  of  earlier  days.  When  we  came  to  Pleasant  Valley, 
he  stopped  the  carriage  at  a  picturesque  wooded  knoll 
between  the  road  and  the  river,  and  said  that  here  he 


56  WHITTIER-LAND 

used  to  come  with  his  sister  to  gather  harebells.  It  was 
so  late  in  the  season  that  every  other  flower  by  the  road- 
side had  been  killed  by  frost;  even  the  goldenrod  was 
more  sere  than  yellow.  But  the  harebells  were  fresh  in 
their  delicate  beauty,  and  he  gathered  a  handful  of  them 
which  lighted  up  his  "  garden  room  "  for  several  days.  I 
remember  that  on  this  occasion  an  effect  referred  to  in 
"The  River  Path  "  was  reproduced  most  beautifully.  The 
setting  sun,  hidden  to  us,  illuminated  the  hills  of  New- 

bury :  — 

"  A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

"  With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom : 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom ; 

"  While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between." 

To  a  friend  in  Brooklyn  who  inquired  in  regard  to  the 
origin  of  this  poem,  Mr.  Whittier  wrote  :  "  The  little  poem 
referred  to  was  suggested  by  an  evening  on  the  Merrimac 
River,  in  company  with  my  dear  sister,  who  is  no  longer 
with  me,  having  crossed  the  river  (as  I  fervently  hope)  to 
the  glorified  hills  of  God." 

"  The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn  "  is  another  poem  inspired 
by  the  scenery  of  this  locality.  At  the  lower  end  of  this 
valley,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Powow,  on  the  edge  of  the 
bluff  overlooking  the  Merrimac,  Goody  Martin  lived  more 
than  two  hundred  years  ago,  and  the  cellar  of  her  house 
was  still  to  be  seen  when,  in  1857,  Whittier  first  told  the 
story  of  "  The  Witch's  Daughter,"  the  poem  now  known 
as  "Mabel  Martin."  She  was  the  only  woman  who  suffered 
death  on  a  charge  of  witchcraft  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Merrimac.  One  other  aged  woman  in  this  village  was 
imprisoned,  and  would  have  been  put  to  death,  but  for  the 
timely  collapse  of  the  persecution.  She  was  the  wife  of 
Judge  Bradbury,  and  lived  on  the  Salisbury  side  of  the 
Powow.  In  his  ballad  Whittier  traces  the  path  he  used  to 


AMESBURY 


57 


take  towards  the  Goody  Martin  place,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom in  many  of  his  ballads.  One  who  desires  to  take  this 
path  can  enter  upon  it  at  the  Union  Cemetery,  where  the 
poet  is  buried.  Follow  the  "  level  tableland  "  he  describes 
towards  the  Merrimac,  looking  down  at  the  left  into  the 


CURSON'S   MILL,   ARTICHOKE   RIVER 

deep  and  picturesque  valley  of  the  Powow,  —  a  charming 
view  of  its  placid,  winding  course  after  it  has  made  its 
plunge  of  eighty  feet  over  a  shoulder  of  Po  Hill,  —  until 

you 

..."  see  the  dull  plain  fall 
Sheer  off,  steep-slanted,  ploughed  by  all 
The  seasons'  rainfalls," 

and  you  look  down  upon  the  broad  Merrimac  seeking 
"  the  wave-sung  welcome  of  the  sea."  Find  a  path  winding 
down  the  bluff  facing  the  river,  half-way  down  to  the  hat 
factory  which  is  close  to  the  water,  and  you  are  upon  the 
location  of  Goody  Martin's  cottage.  But  no  trace  is  now 
to  be  seen  of  "  the  cellar,  vine  overrun  "  which  the  poet 
describes. 

I  visited  the  spot  with  the  poet  on  the  October  day 
before  referred  to,  and  noted  the  felicity  of  his  descrip- 
tions of  the  locality.  It  is  near  the  river,  but  high  above 


58  WHITTIER-LAND 

it,  and  one  looks  down  upon  the  tops  of  the  willows  on 
the  bank :  — 

"  And  through  the  willow-boughs  below 
She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine." 

Opposite  Pleasant  Valley,  on  the  Newbury  side  of  the 
river,  are  "  The  Laurels,"  "  Curson's  Mill,"  and  the  mouth 
of  the  Artichoke,  celebrated  in  several  poems.  In  June, 
when  the  laurels  are  in  bloom,  this  shore  is  well  worth 
visiting  for  its  natural  beauties,  as  well  as  for  the  associa- 
tion of  Whittier's  frequent  allusion  to  it  in  prose  as  well 
as  verse.  It  was  for  the  "  Laurel  Party,"  an  annual  excur- 
sion of  his  friends  to  this  shore,  that  he  wrote  the  poems, 
"  Our  River,"  "  Revisited,"  and  "  The  Laurels."  In  "  June 
on  the  Merrimac  "  he  sings  :  — 

"  And  here  are  pictured  Artichoke, 

And  Curson's  bowery  mill ; 
And  Pleasant  Valley  smiles  between 
The  river  and  the  hill." 

In  the  stanza  preceding  this  he  takes  a  view  down  the 
Merrimac,  past  Moulton's  Hill  in  Newbury,  —  an  emi- 
nence commanding  one  of  the  finest  views  on  the  river, 
formerly  crowned  with  a  castle-like  structure  occupied 
for  several  years  as  the  summer  residence  of  Sir  Edward 
Thornton,  —  to  the  great  bend  the  river  makes  in  passing 
its  last  rocky  barrier  at  Deer  Island.  The  Hawkswood 
oaks  are  a  magnificent  feature  of  the  scene.  This  estate, 
on  the  Amesbury  side  of  the  river,  was  formerly  occupied 
by  Rev.  J.  C.  Fletcher,  of  Brazilian  fame. 

"  The  Hawkswood  oaks,  the  storm -torn  plumes 

Of  old  pine-forest  kings, 
Beneath  whose  century-woven  shade 
Deer  Island's  mistress  sings." 

The  Merrimac,  beautiful  as  are  its  banks  along  its  en- 
tire course,  nowhere  presents  more  picturesque  scenery 
than  where  it  passes  through  the  deep  valley  it  has  worn 


AMESBURY 


59 


for  itself  between  the  hills  of  Amesbury  and  Newbury, 
and  especially  where  its  tidal  current  is  parted  by  the 
perpendicular  cliffs  of  Deer  Island.  At  this  point  the 
quaint  old  chain  bridge,  built  about  a  century  ago,  spans 
the  stream.  This  island  is  the  home  of  Harriet  Prescott 
Spofford,  who  is  referred  to  in  the  stanza  just  quoted. 
About  forty  years  ago,  it  was  proposed  to  build  a  summer 
hotel  on  this  island,  which  is  four  or  five  miles  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Merrimac.  I  have  found  among  Mr.  Whit- 
tier's  papers  an  unfinished  poem,  protesting  against  what 
he  considered  a  desecration  of  this  spot  which  always 


DEER   ISLAND  AND   CHAIN    BRIDGE 

had  a  great  charm  for  him.  It  is  likely  that  the  reason 
why  this  poem  was  never  finished  or  published  was  be- 
cause the  project  of  building  a  hotel  was  abandoned.  I 
have  taken  the  liberty  to  give  as  a  title  for  it  "  The  Plaint 
of  the  Merrimac."  As  it  was  written  in  almost  undeci- 
pherable hieroglyphics,  some  of  the  words  are  conjec- 
tural :  — 

"  I  heard,  methought,  a  murmur  faint, 

Our  River  making  its  complaint  ; 

Complaining  in  its  liquid  way, 

Thus  it  said,  or  seemed  to  say  : 


60  WHITTIER-LAND 

"  '  What 's  all  this  pother  on  my  banks  — 
Squinting  eyes  and  pacing  shanks  — 
Peeping,  running,  left  and  right, 
With  compass  and  theodolite  ? 

"  '  Would  they  spoil  this  sacred  place  ? 
Blotch  with  paint  its  virgin  face  ? 
Do  they  —  is  it  possible  — 
Do  they  dream  of  a  hotel  ? 

"  '  Match  against  my  moonlight  keen 
Their  tallow  dip  and  kerosene  ? 
Match  their  low  walls,  plaster-spread, 
With  my  blue  dome  overhead  ? 

"  '  Bring  their  hotel  din  and  smell 

Where  my  sweet  winds  blow  so  well, 
And  my  birches  dance  and  swing, 
While  my  pines  above  them  sing  ? 

"  '  This  puny  mischief  has  its  day, 
But  Nature's  patient  tasks  alway 
Begin  where  Art  and  Fashion  stopped, 
O'ergrow,  and  conquer,  and  adopt. 

"  '  Still  far  as  now  my  tide  shall  flow, 
While  age  on  age  shall  come  and  go, 
Nor  lack,  through  all  the  coming  days, 
The  grateful  song  of  human  praise.'  " 

Before  the  chain  bridge  was  built,  a  ferry  was  main- 
tained at  the  mouth  of  the  Powow,  and  here  Washington 
crossed  the  river  at  his  last  visit  to  New  England.  It  is 
said  that  a  French  ship  lay  at  the  wharf  near  the  ferry, 
and  displayed  the  French  flag  over  the  American  because 
of  the  French  feeling  against  the  policy  of  Washington's 
administration.  Washington  refused  to  land  until  the 
obnoxious  flag  was  lowered  to  its  proper  place. 

It  was  a  one-story  cottage  on  Friend  Street,  Amesbury, 
to  which  the  Whittiers  came  in  July,  1836  —  a  cottage 
with  but  four  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  and  a  chamber 
in  the  attic.  The  sum  paid  for  this  cottage,  with  about 


AMESBURY 


61 


an  acre  of  land,  was  twelve  hundred  dollars.  The  Haver- 
hill  farm  was  sold  for  three  thousand  dollars.  Accustomed 
to  the  comparatively  large  ancestral  home  at  Haverhill, 
it  is  no  wonder  that  there  was  at  first  a  feeling  of  home- 
sickness, as  is  evidenced  in  the  diary  kept  by  Elizabeth. 
This  feeling  was  naturally  intensified  by  the  prolonged 
absences  of  her  brother,  who  from  1836  to  1840  was  away 
from  home  most  of  the  time,  engaged  with  his  duties  as 
secretary  of  the  anti-slavery  society  in  New  York,  and  as 
editor  of  the  "  Pennsylvania  Freeman  "  in  Philadelphia. 
During  these  years,  the  only  occupants  of  the  cottage  were 
Whittier's  mother,  his  sister  Elizabeth,  and  his  aunt  Mercy, 
except  when  his  frequent  illnesses,  and  his  interest  in  the 
political  events  of  the  North  Essex  congressional  district, 


THE   WH1TTIER   HOME,    AMESBURY 

called  him  home.  But  in  1840,  his  residence  in  Amesbury 
became  permanent.  At  about  this  time  he  made  the  tour 
of  the  country  with  the  English  philanthropist,  Joseph 
Sturge,  who  noticed  his  straitened  circumstances,  and  out 
of  the  largeness  of  his  heart,  in  a  most  delicate  way,  not 


62  WHITTIER-LAND 

only  gave  him  financial  assistance  at  the  time,  but  seven 
years  later  enabled  him  to  build  a  two-story  ell  to  the 
cottage,  and  add  a  story  to  the  eastern  half  of  the  original 
structure.  A  small  ell  of  one  story,  occupying  part  of  the 
space  of  the  present  "garden  room, "was  built  by  Mr.  Whit- 
tier  when  he  bought  the  cottage  in  1836,  and  this  was  aunt 
Mercy's  room.  At  the  later  enlargement  of  the  house  this 
small  room  was  lengthened,  and  a  chamber  built  over  it. 
In  the  lower  floor  of  this  enlarged  ell  is  the  room  which 
has  ever  since  been  known  as  the  "  garden  room,''  because 
it  was  built  into  the  garden,  and  a  much  prized  fruit  tree 
was  sacrificed  to  give  it  place.  The  chamber  over  this 
room  was  occupied  by  Elizabeth  until  her  death  in  1864, 
and  after  that  by  Mr.  Whittier. 

While  repairs  were  making  in  this  part  of  the  house  in 
the  summer  of  1903,  a  package  of  old  letters  was  found 
in  the  wall,  bearing  the  date  of  1847,  tne  vear  when  the 
enlargement  was  made.  One  of  them  reveals  the  source 
of  the  money  required  for  the  improvement.  It  was  from 
Lewis  Tappan  of  New  York,  the  financial  backbone  of 
the  anti-slavery  society,  inclosing  a  check  for  arrears  of 
salary  due  Whittier  for  editorial  work.  Mr.  Tappan  writes  : 
"  I  will  ask  the  executive  committee  to  raise  the  compensa- 
tion. I  wish  we  could  pay  you  according  to  the  real  value 
of  your  productions,  rather  than  according  to  their  length. 
.  .  .  Inclosed  is  a  check  for  one  hundred  dollars.  Mr. 
Sturge  authorizes  me  to  draw  on  him  for  one  thousand 
dollars  at  any  time  when  you  and  I  should  think  it  could 
be  judiciously  invested  in  real  estate  for  your  family.  I 
can  procure  the  money  in  a  week  by  drawing  on  him. 
When  you  have  made  up  your  mind  as  to  the  investment, 
please  let  me  know." 

At  this  time  the  poet  was  feeling  the  pinch  of  real  pov- 
erty and  was  living  in  a  little  one-story  cottage  that  gave 
him  no  room  for  a  study,  and  no  suitable  chamber  for  a 
guest.  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  received  the  letter  which 
contained  not  only  a  check  for  overdue  salary,  but  a  pro- 


AMESBURY  63 

mise  of  a  gift  of  one  thousand  dollars  from  his  generous 
English  friend,  Joseph  Sturge.  The  result  of  this  benefi- 
cence was  the  building  of  the  "garden  room,"  to  which 
thousands  of  visitors  come  from  all  parts  of  this  and  other 
countries,  because  in  it  were  written  "  Snow-Bound,"  "  The 


JOSEPH    STURGE,   THE   ENGLISH    PHILANTHROPIST 

"  The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 
He  joined  to  courage  strong." 

IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE 

Eternal  Goodness,"  and  most  of  the  poems  of  Whittier's 
middle  life  and  old  age.  Mr.  Sturge  had  sent  Whittier  six 
years  earlier  a  draft  for  one  thousand  dollars,  intending 
it  should  be  used  by  him  in  traveling  for  his  health. 
But  Whittier  had  given  most  of  this  toward  the  support 
of  an  anti-slavery  paper  in  New  York.  Two  years  later 
the  same  generous  friend  offered  to  pay  all  his  expenses 


64  WHITTIER-LAND 

if  he  would  come  to  England  as  his  guest,  an  offer  he  was 
obliged  to  decline.  A  portrait  of  Sturge  is  appropriately 
placed  in  this  room.  Tappan's  letter  was  written  April  21, 
1847,  and  the  addition  to  the  cottage  was  built  in  the 
summer  of  that  year.  The  whole  expense  of  the  improve- 
ment was  no  doubt  covered  by  Sturge's  gift.  Other  inter- 
esting letters  of  the  same  period  were  included  in  the 
package  in  the  wall. 

In  a  drawer  of  the  desk  is  a  most  remarkable  album 
of  autographs  of  public  men,  presented  to  Mr.  Whittier 
on  his  eightieth  birthday,  by  the  Essex  Club.  It  is  a 
tribute  to  the  poet  signed  by  every  member  of  the  United 
States  Senate  and  House  of  Representatives,  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States,  the  Governor,  ex-Governors, 
and  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts,  and  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Essex  Club  ;  also,  many  distinguished  citizens, 
such  as  George  Bancroft  (who  adds  to  his  autograph 
"with  special  good  wishes  to  the  coming  octogenarian  "), 
Robert  C.  Winthrop,  Frederick  Douglass,  and  J.  G. 
Elaine.  An  eloquent  speech  of  Senator  Hoar,  who  sug- 
gested this  unique  tribute,  is  engrossed  in  the  exquisite 
penmanship  of  a  colored  man,  to  whom  was  intrusted 
the  ornamental  pen-work  of  the  whole  volume.  The  con- 
gressional signatures  were  obtained  by  Congressman 
Coggswell  of  the  Essex  district.  It  is  noticeable  that  no 
Southern  member  declined  to  sign  this  tribute  to  one  so 
identified  with  the  anti-slavery  movement. 

The  "  garden  room  "  remains  almost  precisely  as  when 
occupied  by  the  poet  —  the  same  chairs,  open  stove, 
books,  pictures,  and  even  wall-paper  and  carpet,  remain- 
ing in  it  as  he  placed  them.  In  the  north  window  the 
flowers  pressed  between  the  plates  of  glass  are  those 
on  receipt  of  which  he  wrote  "  The  Pressed  Gentian."  By 
the  desk  is  the  cane  he  carried  for  more  than  fifty  years, 
made  of  wood  from  his  office  in  Pennsylvania  Hall,  burned 
by  a  pro-slavery  mob  in  1838.  This  is  the  cane  for  which 
he  wrote  the  poem  "  The  Relic  :  "  — 


AMESBURY  65 

"  And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 

O  holy  Freedom  !  hath  to  me 
A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 

To  testify  of  thee ; 
And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 
A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal." 

He  had  many  canes  given  him,  some  valuable,  but  this 
plain  stick  was  the  only  one  he  ever  carried.  With  this 
cane  may  be  seen  one  made  of  oak  from  the  cottage  of 


THE   "GARDEN  ROOM,"  AMESBURY  HOME 

Barbara  Frietchie  —  not,  as  was  erroneously  stated  in 
the  biography,  a  cane  carried  by  the  patriotic  Barbara. 
The  portraits  he  hung  in  this  room  are  of  Garrison, 
Thomas  Starr  King,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Sturge,  "  Chi- 
nese "  Gordon,  and  Matthew  Franklin  Whittier.  There 
is  also  a  fine  picture  of  his  birthplace,  a  water-color  sent 
him  by  Bayard  Taylor  from  the  most  northern  point  in 
Norway,  and  a  picture,  also  sent  by  Bayard  Taylor,  of  the 
Rock  in  El  Ghor,  on  receipt  of  which  the  poem  of  that 
title  was  written.  The  Norway  picture  was  painted  by  Mrs. 


66  WHITTIER-LAND 

Taylor,  and  represents  the  surroundings  of  the  northern- 
most church  in  the  world.  The  mirror  in  this  room  is  an 
heirloom  of  the  Whittier  family,  dating  at  least  a  century 
before  the  birth  of  the  poet.  The  little  table  under  it  is 
almost  equally  old. 

The  album  containing  the  likeness  of  Dr.  Weld  has 
also  a  photograph  under  which  Whittier  has  written 
"  Mary  E.  S.  Thomas,"  and  this  has  a  special  interest,  as 
it  is  a  portrait  of  his  relative,  schoolmate,  and  life-long 
friend,  Mary  Emerson  Smith,  who  became  the  wife  of 
Judge  Thomas  of  Covington,  Ky.  She  was  a  grand- 
daughter of  Captain  Nehemiah  Emerson,  who  fought  at 
Bunker  Hill,  was  an  officer  in  the  army  of  Washington, 
serving  at  Valley  Forge  and  at  the  surrender  of  Bur- 
goyne,  and  her  grandmother  was  Mary  Whittier  —  a 
cousin  of  the  poet's  father,  whom  Whittier  used  to  call 
"  aunt  Mary."  For  a  time,  when  in  his  teens,  he  stayed 
at  Captain  Emerson's,  and  went  to  school  from  there,  mak- 
ing himself  useful  in  doing  chores.  Mary  Smith,  then  a 
young  girl,  passed  much  of  her  time  at  her  grandfather's, 
and  later  was  a  fellow-student  of  Whittier's  at  the  Acad- 
emy. I  think  there  is  now  no  impropriety  in  stating  that 
it  is  to  her  that  the  poem  "  Memories  "  refers.1  She  was 
living  at  the  time  when  the  biography  of  Whittier  was 
written,  and  for  that  reason  her  name  was  not  given,  but 
only  a  veiled  reference  in  "  Life  and  Letters,"  as  at  page 
276.  During  many  years  of  her  widowhood  she  spent  the 
summer  months  in  New  England,  and  occasionally  met 
Mr.  Whittier  at  the  mountains.  They  were  in  friendly 
correspondence  to  the  close  of  his  life.  She  survived  him 

1  It  is  of  curious  interest  that  although  the  poem  Memories 
\vas  first  published  in  1841,  the  description  of  the  "  beautiful  and 
happy  girl  "  in  its  opening  lines  is  identical  with  that  of  one  of 
the  characters  in  Moll  Pitcher,  published  nine  years  earlier,  and  I 
have  authority  for  saying  that  Mary  Smith  was  in  mind  when  that 
portrait  was  drawn.  Probably  the  reason  why  Whittier  never  al- 
lowed Moll  Pitcher  to  be  collected  was  because  he  used  lines  from 
it  in  poems  written  at  later  dates. 


AMESBURY 


67 


MARY  EMERSON   (SMITH)  THOMAS 

several  years.  It  has  been  suggested  with  some  show  of 
probability  that  it  is  a  memory  of  the  days  they  spent  to- 
gether at  her  grandfather's  that  is  embodied  in  the  poem 
"  My  Playmate."  At  the  time  when  this  poem  was  writ- 
ten she  was  living  in  Kentucky. 

"  She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 

The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go." 

But  this  poem,  like  others  of  Whittier's,  is  probably  a 
composite  of  memories  and  largely  imaginative,  as  is 
shown  in  what  is  elsewhere  said  about  the  localities  of 
Ramoth  Hill  and  Folly  Mill. 

In  the  "  garden  room  "  also  is  a  miniature  on  ivory  of 


68 


WHITTIER-LAND 


a  beautiful  girl  of  seventeen,  crowned  with  roses.  This  is 
Evelina  Bray  of  Marblehead,  a  classmate  of  Whittier's  at 
the  Academy  in  the  year  1827,  when  this  portrait  was 
painted.  But  for  adverse  circumstances,  the  school  ac- 
quaintance which  led  to  a  warm  attachment  between  them 
might  have  resulted  in  marriage.  But  the  case  was  hope- 
less from  the  first.  He  was  but  nineteen  years  old,  and 


EVELINA  BRAY,  AT  THE  AGE  OF  SEVENTEEN 

she  seventeen.  On  both  sides  the  families  opposed  the 
match.  Among  the  Quakers  marriage  "  outside  of  society  " 
was  not  to  be  thought  of  in  those  days ;  in  his  case  it 
would  mean  the  breaking  up  of  a  family  circle  dependent 
on  him,  and  a  severance  from  his  loved  mother  and  sister. 
This  same  reason  prevented  the  ripening  of  other  attach- 


AMESBURY 


69 


ments  in  later  life  ;  for  in  each  case  his  choice  would 
have  been  "  out  of  society."  Two  or  three  years  after 
they  parted  at  the  close  of 
an  Academy  term,  he  walked 
from  Salem  to  Marblehead 
before  breakfast  on  a  June 
morning,  to  see  his  school- 
mate. He  was  then  editing 
the  "  American  Manufac- 
turer," in  Boston.  She  could 
not  invite  him  in,  and  they 
walked  to  the  old  ruined  fort, 
and  sat  on  the  rocks  over- 
looking the  beautiful  harbor. 
This  meeting  is  commemo- 
rated in  three  stanzas  of  one 
of  the  loveliest  of  his  poems,  WHITTIER>  AT  THE  AGE  OF 
"  A  Sea  Dream  "  —  a  poem,  TWENTY-TWO 

by  the  way,  not  as  a  whole 

referring  to  Marblehead  or  to  the  friend  of  his  youth. 
But  I  have  good  authority  for  the  statement  that  these 
three  stanzas  refer  directly  to  the  Marblehead  incident. 
All  who  are  familiar  with  the  locality  will  recognize  it  in 
these  verses  :  — 

"  The  waves  are  glad  in  breeze  and  sun ; 

The  rocks  are  fringed  with  foam  ; 
I  walk  once  more  a  haunted  shore, 
A  stranger,  yet  at  home, 
A  land  of  dreams  I  roam. 

"  Is  this  the  wind,  the  soft  sea-wind 
That  stirred  thy  locks  of  brown  ? 
Are  these  the  rocks  whose  mosses  knew 
The  trail  of  thy  light  gown, 
Where  boy  and  girl  sat  down  ? 


"  I  see  the  gray  fort's  broken  wall, 
The  boats  that  rock  below  ; 


70  WHITTIER-LAND 

And,  out  at  sea,  the  passing  sails 
We  saw  so  long  ago 
Rose-red  in  morning's  glow." 

With  a  single  exception,  these  schoolmates  did  not  meet 
again  for  more  than  fifty  years,  and  Whittier  was  never 
aware  of  this  exception.  In  middle  life,  when  the  poet 
was  editing  the  "  Pennsylvania  Freeman,"  and  Miss  Bray 
was  engaged  with  Catherine  Beecher  in  educational  work, 
they  once  happened  to  sit  side  by  side  in  the  pew  of  a 
Philadelphia  church,  but  he  left  without  recognizing  her, 
and  she  was  too  shy  to  speak  to  him.  I  had  the  story 
from  a  lady  who  as  a  little  girl  sat  in  the  pew  with  them, 
and  knew  them  both.  Miss  Bray  married  an  Englishman 
named  Downey,  and  in  a  romantic  way 1  Mr.  Whittier 
discovered  her  address.  Mr.  Downey  was  an  evangelist 
making  a  crusade  in  the  great  cities  against  Romanism, 
and  met  his  death  from  wounds  received  in  facing  a  New 
York  mob.  Whittier,  supposing  he  was  poor,  and  that  his 
schoolmate  was  having  a  hard  time,  sent  Downey  money 
without  her  knowledge.  She  accidentally  discovered  this 
and  returned  the  money.  In  her  widowhood  she  occasion- 
ally corresponded  with  Mr.  Whittier,  who  induced  her  to 
come  to  the  reunion  of  his  schoolmates  in  1885,  more 
than  fifty  years  after  their  parting  at  Marblehead,  and 
more  than  forty  years  after  the  chance  meeting  in  Phila- 

1  This  is  how  it  happened  :  Mr.  Downey  saw  a  newspaper  item  to 
the  effect  that  Mrs.  S.  F.  Smith  was  a  classmate  of  Whittier's.  He 
knew  that  his  wife  was  a  classmate  of  Mrs.  Smith,  and  "  put  this  and 
that  together."  Without  saying  anything  to  her  about  it,  he  sent  a 
tract  of  his  to  Whittier,  and  with  it  a  note  about  his  work  as  an  evan- 
gelist ;  in  a  postscript  he  said,  "  Did  you  ever  know  Evelina  Bray  ?  " 
Whittier  wrote  a  criticism  of  the  tract,  which  was  against  Colonel 
Ingersoll,  in  which  he  said,  "  It  occurs  to  me  to  say  that  in  thy  tract 
there  is  hardly  enough  charity  for  that  unfortunate  man,  who,  it 
seems  to  me,  is  much  to  be  pitied  for  his  darkness  of  unbelief." 
He  added  as  a  postscript,  "  What  does  thee  know  about  Evelina 
Bray  ? "  Downey  replied  that  she  was  his  wife,  but  did  not  let  her 
know  of  this  correspondence,  or  of  his  receipt  of  money  from  her 
old  schoolmate.  He  was  not  poor,  only  eccentric. 


AMESBURY  71 

delphia.  At  this  reunion  she  gave  him  the  miniature 
reproduced  in  our  engraving,  which  was  returned  to  her 
after  Whittier's  death.  When  she  died  it  went  to  another 
schoolmate,  the  wife  of  Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith,  author  of 


EVKLINA    BRAY   DOWNEY 

our  national  hymn.  From  her  it  came  to  Whittier's  niece, 
and  is  now  kept  in  the  drawer  where  the  poet  originally 
placed  it.  With  it  is  the  first  portrait  ever  taken  of  Whit- 
tier  —  it  being  painted  by  the  same  artist  (J.  S.  Porter) 
two  or  three  years  after  the  girl's  miniature,  while  he  was 
editing  the  "  Manufacturer." 


72  WHITTIER-LAND 

Here  is  an  extract  from  a  note  Whittier  sent  Mrs. 
Downey  soon  after  the  reunion  :  "Let  me  thank  thee  for 
the  picture  thee  so  kindly  left  with  me.  The  sweet,  lovely 
girl  face  takes  me  back  to  the  dear  old  days,  as  I  look  at 
it.  I  wish  I  could  give  thee  something  half  as  valuable  in 
return."  The  portrait  of  Mrs.  Downey  at  the  age  of  eighty, 
here  given,  is  from  a  photograph  she  contributed  to  an 
album  presented  to  Whittier  by  his  schoolmates  of  1827, 
after  the  reunion  of  1885.  Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith  attended 
this  reunion  in  place  of  his  wife,  who  was  then  an  invalid, 
and  he  wrote  to  his  wife  this  account  of  the  appearance 
of  her  old  schoolmate  at  that  meeting :  "  She  looked,  O  so 
distingue,  in  black  silk,  with  a  white  muslin  veil,  reaching 
over  the  silver  head  and  down  below  the  shoulders.  Just 
as  if  she  were  a  Romish  Madonna,  who  had  stepped  out 
from  an  old  church  painting  to  hold  an  hour's  communion 
with  earth." 

I  was  in  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Downey  during  the 
last  years  of  her  life,  but  she  would  not  give  me  permission 
to  call  upon  her,  and  the  reason  given  was  that  I  had  seen 
the  miniature,  and  she  preferred  to  be  remembered  by  that. 
She  was  very  shy  about  telling  of  her  early  acquaintance 
with  Whittier,  and  whatever  I  could  learn  was  by  indirec- 
tion. For  instance,  I  obtained  the  Marblehead  story  by 
her  sending  me  a  copy  of  Whittier's  poems  which  he  had 
given  her,  and  she  had  drawn  a  line  around  the  stanzas 
quoted  above.  No  word  accompanied  the  book.  Of  course 
I  guessed  what  she  meant,  and  asked  if  my  guess  was  cor- 
rect. She  replied  "Yes,"  and  no  more.  Whittier  said  he 
had  the  Captain  Ireson  story  from  a  schoolmate  who  came 
from  Marblehead.  I  asked  her  if  she,  as  the  only  Marble- 
head  schoolmate,  was  the  person  referred  to,  and  received 
an  emphatic  "No."  To  an  intimate  friend  she  once  said 
that  during  her  early  acquaintance  with  Whittier  it  seemed 
as  if  the  devil  kept  whispering  to  her,  "  He  is  only  a  shoe- 
maker ! " 

The  apartment  now  used  as  a  reception  room  was  the 


AMESBURY  73 

kitchen  of  the  original  cottage,  and  has  the  large  fireplace 
and  brick  oven  that  were  universal  in  houses  built  a 
century  ago.  A  small  kitchen  was  later  built  as  an  ell, 
and  this  central  room  became  the  dining  room,  remain- 
ing so  as  long  as  Mr.  Whittier  lived.  In  the  reception 
room  is  a  large  bookcase  filled  with  a  part  of  the  poet's 
library,  exactly  as  when  he  was  living  here.  His  books 
overrun  all  the  rooms  in  the  house,  and  many  are  packed 
in  closets.  The  large  engraving  of  Lincoln  over  the  man- 
tel is  an  artist's  proof,  and  was  placed  there  by  Whittier 
forty  years  ago.  An  ancient  mirror  in  this  room,  sur- 
mounted by  a  gilt  eagle,  was  broken  by  a  lightning  stroke 
in  September,  1872.  The  track  of  the  electrical  current 
may  still  be  seen  in  the  blackening  of  a  gilt  moulding  in 
the  upper  left  corner.  The  broken  glass  fell  over  a  mem- 
ber of  the  family  sitting  under  it,  and  Whittier  himself, 
who  was  standing  near  the  door  of  the  "  garden  room,"  was 
thrown  to  the  floor.  All  in  the  house  were  stunned  and 
remained  deafened  for  several  minutes,  but  no  one  was 
seriously  injured.  Up  to  that  time  the  house  had  been 
protected  by  lightning  rods  ;  but  Mr.  Whittier  now  had 
them  removed,  and  refused  to  have  them  replaced,  though 
much  solicited  by  agents.  In  revenge,  one  of  the  per- 
sistent brotherhood  issued  a  circular  having  a  picture  of 
this  house  with  a  thunderbolt  descending  upon  it,  as  an 
awful  warning  against  neglect !  He  had  the  impudence  to 
emphasize  his  fulmination  by  printing  a  portrait  of  the 
poet,  who,  it  was  intimated,  would  yet  be  punished  for 
defying  the  elements. 

The  old  parlor,  the  principal  room  of  the  original  cot- 
tage, has  suffered  no  change  in  the  several  remodelings  of 
the  house.  The  beams  in  the  corners  show  a  frame  of  the 
olden  style  —  for  the  cottage  had  been  built  many  years 
when  the  Whittiers  came  here.  The  clear  pine  boards 
in  the  dado  are  two  feet  in  width.  In  this  room  are  placed 
many  memorials  of  the  poet  of  interest  to  visitors.  What 
to  him  was  the  most  precious  thing  in  the  house  is  the  por- 


74  WHITTIER-LAND 

trait  of  his  mother  over  the  mantel  — a  work  of  art  that 
holds  the  attention  of  the  most  casual  visitor.  The  like- 
ness to  her  distinguished  son  is  remarked  by  all.  One  sees 
strength  of  character  in  the  beautiful  face,  and  a  dignity 
that  is  softened  by  sweetness  and  serenity  of  spirit.  The 
plain  lace  cap,  white  kerchief,  drab  shawl,  and  folded  hands 
typify  all  the  Quaker  virtues  that  were  preeminently  hers. 
On  the  opposite  wall  is  the  crayon  likeness  of  Eliza- 
beth, the  dearly  loved  sister,  so  tenderly  apostrophized  in 
"  Snow-Bound  :  "  — 

"  I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 
The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ?  " 

When  she  died,  in  1864,  her  friend,  Lucy  Larcom,  had 
this  excellent  portrait  made  and  presented  it  to  the  be- 
reaved brother,  and  it  has  hung  on  this  wall  nearly  forty 
years.  All  the  other  members  of  the  "  Snow-Bound  "fam- 
ily are  here  represented  by  portraits,  except  the  father  and 
uncle  Moses,  of  whom  no  likenesses  exist,  save  as  found 
in  the  poet's  lines.  The  Hoit  portrait  of  Whittier,  painted 
when  he  was  about  forty  years  of  age,  was  kept  out  of 
sight  in  a  seldom-used  chamber,  while  the  poet  was  living, 
for  he  allowed  no  picture  of  himself  to  be  prominently 
displayed.  The  portrait  of  his  brother  was  painted  when 
he  was  about  forty  years  of  age.  A  small  photograph  of 
his  Older  sister,  Mary  Caldwell,  is  shown,  and  a  silhouette 
of  aunt  Mercy  ;  also  a  portrait  of  his  brother's  daughter, 
Elizabeth  (Mrs.  Pickard),  who  was  a  member  of  his  house- 
hold for  twenty  years,  and  to  whom  he  left  this  house  and 
its  contents  by  his  will.  Her  son  Greenleaf,  to  whom 
when  four  years  of  age  his  granduncle  inscribed  the 
poem  "  A  Name,"  now  resides  here. 

In  this  parlor  is  the  desk  on  which  "  Snow- Bound  "  was 
written,  also  "  The  Tent  on  the  Beach  "  and  other  poems  of 


AMESBURY  75 

this  period.  The  success  of  these  poems  enabled  him  to 
buy  a  somewhat  better  desk,  now  to  be  seen  in  the  "  garden 
room,"  where  this  desk  formerly  stood.  In  this  desk  are 
presentation  copies  of  many  books,  with  the  autographs 
of  their  authors  —  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  Lydia  Maria 


MRS.  PICKARD 

Child,  Miss  Mitford,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  John  Hay,  T.  B. 
Aldrich,  and  others.  Here  also  is  the  diary  kept  by  Eliza- 
beth Whittier,  in  the  years  1835-37,  covering  the  period 
of  the  removal  from  Haverhill  to  Amesbury.  Of  antiqua- 
rian interest  is  an  account-book  of  the  Whittier  family, 
from  1786  to  1800,  going  into  minute  details  of  household 
expenses,  and  containing  many  times  repeated  the  auto- 
graphs of  Whittier's  grandfather,  his  father,  and  his  uncles 
Moses  and  Obadiah,  who  recorded  their  annual  settle- 
ments of  accounts  in  this  book.  Near  the  desk  are  bound 


76  WHITTIER-LAND 

volumes  of  papers  edited  by  Whittier  —  the  "  New  England 
Review"  of  1830,  the  "Pennsylvania  Freeman  "  of  1840, 
and  the  "  National  Era  "  of  1847-50.  These  contain  much 
of  his  prose  and  verse  never  collected.  The  Rogers  group 
of  statuary  representing  Whittier,  Beecher,  and  Garrison 
listening  to  the  story  of  a  fugitive  slave  girl,  who  holds 
an  infant  in  her  arms,  is  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  where 
it  has  been  for  about  thirty  years.  The  garden,  in  the 
care  of  which  Mr.  Whittier  took  much  pleasure,  comprises 
about  one  half  acre  of  land.  He  had  peach,  apple,  and 
pear  trees  —  but  the  peaches  gave  out  and  were  not  re- 
newed. He  also  raised  grapes,  quinces,  and  small  fruit 
in  abundance.  The  rosebush  he  prized  as  his  mother's 
favorite  is  still  flourishing,  as  are  also  the  fine  magnolia, 
laburnum,  and  cut-leaved  birch  of  his  planting.  The  ash 
tree  in  front  of  the  house  was  planted  by  his  mother. 

While  gathering  grapes  in  an  arbor  in  this  garden,  in 
1847,  Mr.  Whittier  received  a  bullet  wound  in  the  cheek. 
Two  boys  were  firing  at  a  mark  on  the  grounds  of  a 
neighbor,  and  this  mark  was  near  where  Whittier  stood, 
but  on  account  of  a  high  fence  they  did  not  see  him. 
When  the  bullet  struck  him,  he  was  so  concerned  lest  his 
mother  should  be  alarmed  by  the  accident  that  he  said 
nothing,  not  even  notifying  the  boys.  He  bound  up  his 
bleeding  face  in  a  handkerchief  and  called  on  Dr.  Spar- 
hawk,  who  lived  near.  As  soon  as  the  wound  was  dressed, 
he  came  home  and  gave  his  family  their  first  notice  of  the 
accident.  The  boys  had  not  then  learned  the  result  of 
their  carelessness.  The  lad  who  fired  the  gun  was  named 
Philip  Butler,  and  he  has  since  acquired  a  high  reputation 
as  an  artist.  The  painting  representing  the  Haverhill 
homestead  which  is  to  be  seen  at  the  birthplace  was  exe- 
cuted by  this  artist.  He  tells  of  the  kindness  with  which 
Whittier  received  his  tearful  confession.  It  was  during 
the  first  days  of  the  Mexican  war,  and  some  of  the  papers 
humorously  commented  upon  it  as  a  singular  fact  that 
the  first  blood  drawn  was  from  the  veins  of  a  Quaker  who 
had  so  actively  opposed  entering  upon  that  war. 


SCENE   IN   GARDEN,   A 


WHITTIER'S   FUNERAL 


AMESBURY 


77 


Once  while  his  guest  at  Amesbury,  I  went  with  him  to 
town  meeting.  He  was  one  of  the  first  men  in  the  town  to 
vote  that  morning,  and  after  voting  spent  an  hour  talking 
politics  with  his  townsmen.  General  C.,  his  candidate  for 
Congress,  had  been  intemperate,  and  the  temperance  men 
were  making  that  excuse  for  voting  in  favor  of  Colonel  F., 
who,  Whittier  said,  always  drank  twice  as  much  as  C.,  but 
was  harder  headed  and  stood  it  better.  Other  candidates 
were  being  scratched  for  reasons  as  flimsy,  and  our  Grand 
Old  Man  was  getting  disgusted  with  the  Grand  Old  Party, 


THE   FERRY,   SALISBURY    POINT 

Mouth  of  Powow  in  foreground  at  the  right  hidden  by  its  own  banks  in  this  picture. 
Hawkswood  in  distance  at  extreme  right 

as  represented  at  that  meeting.  He  said  to  a  friend  he 
met,  "  The  Republicans  are  scratching  like  wild  cats." 
In  the  evening  an  old  friend  and  neighbor  called  on  him, 
and  was  complaining  of  Elaine  and  other  party  leaders. 
At  last  Mr.  Whittier  said,  "  Friend  Turner,  has  thee  met 
many  angels  and  saints  in  thy  dealings  with  either  of  the 
parties  ?  Thy  experience  should  teach  thee  not  to  expect 
too  much  of  human  nature."  On  the  same  evening  he  told 
of  a  call  Mr.  Elaine  made  upon  him  some  time  previously. 
The  charm  of  his  manner,  he  said,  recalled  that  of  Henry 
Clay,  as  he  remembered  him.  On  that  occasion  Elaine 
made  a  suggestion  for  the  improvement  of  a  verse  in  the 


78  WHITTIER-LAND 

poem  "  Among  the  Hills,"  which  Whittier  adopted.  The 
verse  is  descriptive  of  a  country  maiden,  who  was  said 
to  be 

"  Not  beautiful  in  curve  and  line." 

Elaine  suggested  as  an  amendment,  — 

"  Not_/Jz/>  alone  in  curve  and  line ;  " 

and  this  is  the  reading  in  the  latest  editions. 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  during  his  residence 
in  Newburyport,  was  often  a  guest  at  the  Amesbury  home, 
and  he  has  this  to  say  of  each  member  of  the  family  : 
"  The  three  members  of  the  family  formed  a  perfect  com- 
bination of  wholly  varying  temperaments.  Mrs.  Whittier 
was  placid,  strong,  sensible,  an  exquisite  housekeeper 
and  '  provider ; '  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  since  seen 
no  whiteness  to  be  compared  to  the  snow  of  her  table- 
cloths and  napkins.  But  her  soul  was  of  the  same  hue  ; 
and  all  worldly  conditions  and  all  the  fame  of  her  children 
—  for  Elizabeth  Whittier  then  shared  the  fame  —  were  to 
her  wholly  subordinate  things,  to  be  taken  as  the  Lord 
gave.  On  one  point  only  this  blameless  soul  seemed  to 
have  a  shadow  of  solicitude,  this  being  the  new  wonder 
of  Spiritualism,  just  dawning  on  the  world.  I  never  went 
to  the  house  that  there  did  not  come  from  the  gentle  lady, 
very  soon,  a  placid  inquiry  from  behind  her  knitting- 
needles,  '  Has  thee  any  farther  information  to  give  in  re- 
gard to  the  spiritual  communications,  as  they  call  them  ? ' 
But  if  I  attempted  to  treat  seriously  a  matter  which  then, 
as  now,  puzzled  most  inquirers  by  its  perplexing  details, 
there  would  come  some  keen  thrust  from  Elizabeth  Whit- 
tier which  would  throw  all  serious  solution  further  off  than 
ever.  She  was  indeed  a  brilliant  person,  unsurpassed  in 
my  memory  for  the  light  cavalry  charges  of  wit ;  as  unlike 
her  mother  and  brother  as  if  she  had  been  born  into  a 
different  race.  Instead  of  his  regular  features  she  had  a 
wild,  bird-like  look,  with  prominent  nose  and  large  liquid 
dark  eyes,  whose  expression  vibrated  every  instant  be- 


AMESBURY  79 

tween  melting  softness  and  impetuous  wit ;  there  was 
nothing  about  her  that  was  not  sweet  and  kindly,  but  you 
were  constantly  taxed  to  keep  up  with  her  sallies  and  hold 
your  own  ;  while  her  graver  brother  listened  with  delighted 
admiration,  and  rubbed  his  hands  over  bits  of  merry  sar- 
casm which  were  utterly  alien  to  his  own  vein." 

The  village  of  Amesbury  enjoyed  a  sense  of  proprietor- 
ship in  Whittier  which  it  never  lost,  even  when  Danvers 


POWOW   RIVER   AND   PO    HILL 


claimed  him  for  a  part  of  each  year.  He  did  not  give  up 
the  old  house,  consecrated  by  memories  of  his  mother  and 
sister,  but  returned  to  it  oftener  and  oftener  in  his  last 
years,  and  he  hoped  that  he  might  spend  his  last  days  on 
earth  where  his  mother  and  sister  died.  The  feeling  of  the 
people  of  Amesbury  was  expressed  in  a  poem  written  by 
a  neighbor,  and  published  in  the  village  paper,  under  the 
title  of  "  Ours,"  some  stanzas  of  which  are  here  given  :  — 

"  I  say  it  softly  to  myself, 

I  whisper  to  the  swaying  flowers, 

When  he  goes  by,  ring  all  your  bells 

Of  perfume,  ring,  for  he  is  ours. 


8o  WHITTIER-LAND 

"  Ours  is  the  resolute,  firm  step, 

Ours  the  dark  lightning  of  the  eye, 
The  rare  sweet  smile,  and  all  the  joy 
Of  ownership,  when  he  goes  by. 

"  I  know  above  our  simple  spheres 

His  fame  has  flown,  his  genius  towers  ; 
These  are  for  glory  and  the  world. 
But  he  himself  is  only  ours." 

The  Friends'  meeting-house,  in  1836,  was  nearly  oppo- 
site the  Whittier  cottage,  on  the  site  of  the  present  French 
Catholic  church.  Two  centuries  ago  there  had  been  an 
earlier  meeting-house  of  the  Society,  also  on  Friend 


FRIENDS'    MEETING-HOUSE   AT  AMESBURY 

Street,  and  the  name  of  the  street  was  given  on  this  ac- 
count. The  present  meeting-house,  on  the  same  street, 
was  built  in  1851,  upon  plans  made  by  Mr.  Whittier,  who 
was  chairman  of  the  committee  having  it  in  charge.  He 
once  told  me  that  some  conservative  Friends  were  wor- 
ried lest  he  make  the  house  too  ornate.  To  satisfy  them, 


AMESBURY 


81 


he  employed  three  venerable  carpenters,  one  of  them  a 
Quaker  minister  and  the  other  two  elders  of  the  Society, 
and  the  result  was  this  perfectly  plain,  neat  structure, 
comfortable  in  all  its  appointments.  Visitors  like  to  find 
the  seat  usually  occupied  by  Whittier.  It  is  now  marked 


INTERIOR  OF   FRIENDS'   MEETING-HOUSE 
Whittier's  usual  seat  marked,  on  left  side,  near  "  facing  seats." 

by  a  silver  plate.  I  have  accompanied  him  to  a  First  Day 
service  here,  in  which  for  a  half  hour  no  one  was  moved 
to  say  a  word.  And  this  was  the  kind  of  service  he  much 
preferred  to  one  in  which  the  time  was  "fully  occupied." 
The  meeting  was  dismissed  without  a  spoken  word,  the 
signal  being  the  shaking  of  hands  by  two  of  the  elders 
on  the  "  facing  seats."  Then  each  worshiper  shook  the 
hand  of  the  person  next  him.  There  was  no  sudden  sep- 
aration. The  company  formed  itself  into  groups  for  a 
pleasant  social  reunion.  In  the  group  that  surrounded 
Whittier  were  ten  or  twelve  octogenarians,  whom  he  told 


82  WHITTIER-LAND 

me  he  had  met  in  this  way  almost  every  week  since  his 
boyhood;  for  even  when  living  in  Haverhill,  this  was  the 
meeting  his  family  attended.  It  was  delightful  to  see  the 
warmth  and  tenderness  of  the  greetings  of  these  venera- 
ble life-long  friends.  I  once  accompanied  him  to  a  devo- 
tional meeting,  where  many  of  the  leading  Friends  of  the 
Society  were  present,  and  as  the  papers  had  announced 
the  names  of  several  speakers  from  distant  States,  he  ex- 
pressed the  fear  that  there  would  be  no  opportunity  to 
get  "  into  the  quiet."  As  the  speakers  followed  each 
other  in  rapid  succession,  he  asked  me  if  I  had  a  bit  of 
paper  and  a  pencil  with  me.  Then  he  appeared  to  be 
taking  notes  of  the  proceedings.  I  fancied  some  of  the 
speakers  noticed  his  pencil,  and  were  spurred  by  it  to 
an  enlargement  of  utterance.  When  we  were  at  home, 
I  asked  what  he  had  written.  He  smiled  and  handed 
me  his  "  notes,"  which  are  before  me  as  I  write.  "  Man 
spoke,"  "Woman  sang,"  "Man  prayed,"  and  so  on  for  no 
less  than  fourteen  items.  Being  slightly  deaf,  he  had  heard 
scarcely  anything,  and  had  been  noting  the  number  and 
variety  of  the  performances.  It  was  his  protest  against 
much  speaking.  At  dinner  the  same  day,  his  cousin,  Jo- 
seph Cartland,  commented  upon  the  inarticulate  sounds 
that  accompanied  the  remarks  of  one  or  two  of  the  speak- 
ers. "  Let  us  shame  them  out  of  it,"  he  said,  "  let 's  call 
it  grunting."  "  Oh,  no,  Joseph,"  said  Whittier,  "don't  thee 
do  that  —  take  away  the  grunt,  and  nothing  is  left !  " 

Mr.  Whittier  had  many  wonderful  stories  illustrating  the 
guidance  of  the  spirit  to  which  members  of  the  Society  of 
Friends  submitted  in  the  daily  intercourse  of  life.  One  was 
of  an  aged  Friend,  who  never  failed  to  attend  meeting  on 
First  Day.  But  one  morning  he  told  his  wife  that  he  was 
impelled  to  take  a  walk  instead  of  going  to  meeting,  and  he 
knew  not  whither  he  should  go.  He  went  into  the  country 
some  distance  and  came  to  a  lane  which  led  to  a  house. 
He  was  impressed  to  take  this  lane,  and  soon  reached  a 
house  where  a  funeral  service  was  in  progress.  At  the 


AMESBURY  83 

close  of  the  service  he  arose,  and  said  that  he  knew  no- 
thing of  the  circumstances  connected  with  the  death  of 
the  young  woman  lying  in  the  casket,  but  he  was  im- 
pelled to  say  that  she  had  been  accused  of  something  of 
which  she  was  not  guilty,  and  the  false  accusation  had  has- 
tened her  death.  Then  he  added  that  there  was  a  person 
in  the  room  who  knew  she  was  not  guilty,  and  called  upon 
this  person,  whoever  it  might  be,  to  vindicate  the  character 


CAPTAIN'S  WELL 

of  the  deceased.  After  a  solemn  pause,  a  woman  arose 
and  confessed  she  had  slandered  the  dead  girl.  In  telling 
such  stories  as  this,  Mr.  Whittier  did  not  usually  express 
full  and  unreserved  belief  in  their  truth,  but  he  main- 
tained the  attitude  of  readiness  to  believe  anything  of 
this  kind  which  was  well  authenticated,  and  he  approved 
of  the  methods  of  work  adopted  by  the  Society  for  Psy- 
chical Research  in  England  and  in  this  country. 

The  hills  encircling  the  lovely  valley  of  the  short  and 
busy  Powow  River,  beginning  with  the  southwestern  ex- 
tremity of  the  amphitheatre,  are :  Bailey's,  on  the  decli- 


84  WHITTIER-LAND 

vity  of  which,  overlooking  the  Merrimac,  is  the  site  of 
Goody  Martin's  cottage,  the  scene  of  the  poem  of  "  Ma- 
bel Martin  ; "  next  is  the  ridge  on  which  is  the  Union 
Cemetery  where  Whittier  is  buried ;  then  Whittier  Hill, 
named  not  for  the  poet  but  for  his  first  American  ances- 
tor who  settled  here,  and  locally  called  "  Whitcher  Hill  " 
—  showing  the  ancient  pronunciation  of  the  name  ;  then, 
across  the  Powow,  are  Po,  Mundy,  Brown's,  and  Rocky 
hills.  On  a  lower  terrace  of  the  Union  Cemetery  ridge, 
and  near  the  cemetery,  is  the  Macy  house,  built  before 
1654  by  Thomas  Macy,  first  town  clerk  of  Amesbury  (and 
ancestor  of  Edwin  M.  Stanton,  the  great  war  secretary), 
who  was  driven  from  the  town  for  harboring  a  proscribed 
Quaker  in  1659,  as  told  in  the  poem  "The  Exiles;"1 
also,  the  birthplace  of  Josiah  Bartlett,  first  signer  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  after  Hancock,  whose 
statue,  given  by  Jacob  R.  Huntington,  a  public-spirited 
citizen  of  Amesbury,  stands  in  Huntington  Square  ;  and 
near  by  is  "  The  Captain's  Well,"  dug  by  Valentine  Bag- 
ley  in  pursuance  of  a  vow,  as  told  in  Whittier's  poem ; 
also  the  Home  for  Aged  Women,  for  which  Whittier  left 
by  his  will  nearly  $10,000.  It  is  to  a  view  of  Newbury- 
port  as  seen  from  Whittier  Hill,  a  distance  of  five  miles, 
that  the  opening  lines  of  "  The  Preacher  "  refer  :  — 

"  Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 

Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town ; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery ; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south ; 
The  sand -bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar." 

The  cemetery  in  which  Whittier  is  buried  can  be  reached 

1  This  house  is  now  cared  for  by  the  Josiah  Bartlett  chapter  of 
the  Daughters  of  the  Revolution. 


AMESBURY  85 

by  either  the  electric  line  from  Merrimac,  or  the  one  from 
Newburyport  —  the  latter  approaching  nearest  the  part  in 
which  is  the  Whittier  lot.  This  lot  is  in  the  section  re- 
served for  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  is  surrounded 
by  a  well-kept  hedge  of  arbor  vitae.  Here  is  buried 
each  member  of  the  family  commemorated  in  the  poem 
"  Snow- Bound,"  and  also  the  niece  of  the  poet,  who  was 
for  twenty  years  a  member  of  his  household.  There  is  a 
row  of  nine  plain  marble  tablets,  much  alike,  with  Whit- 
tier's  slightly  the  largest.  At  the  corner  where  his  brother 
is  buried  is  a  tall  cedar,  and  at  the  foot  of  his  own  grave 
is  another  symmetrical  tree  of  the  same  kind.  Between 
him  and  his  brother  lie  their  father  and  mother,  their  two 


WHITTIKR    LOT,  UNION   CEMETERY,  AMESBURY 

sisters,  their  uncle  Moses  and  aunt  Mercy.  His  niece, 
daughter  of  his  brother,  has  a  place  by  his  side.  Inclosed 
by  the  same  hedge  is  the  burial  lot  of  his  dearly-loved 
cousin,  Joseph  Cartland.  For  those  who  take  note  of 
dates  it  may  be  said  that  his  father  died  in  1830,  and  not, 
as  stated  on  his  headstone,  one  year  later. 

Po  Hill,  originally  called  Powow,  because  of  the  tradi- 


86  WHITTIER-LAND 

tion  that  the  Indians  used  to  hold  their  powwows  upon  its 
summit,  is  three  hundred  and  thirty-two  feet  high,  and 
commands  a  view  so  extended  that  many  visitors  make 
the  ascent.  One  of  Whittier's  early  prose  legends  is  of  a 
bewitched  Yankee  whose  runaway  horse  took  him  to  the 
top  of  this  hill  into  a  midnight  powwow  of  Indian  ghosts. 
In  describing  the  hill  he  says  :  "  It  is  a  landmark  to  the 
skippers  of  the  coasting  craft  that  sail  up  Newburyport 
harbor,  and  strikes  the  eye  by  its  abrupt  elevation  and 
orbicular  shape,  the  outlines  being  as  regular  as  if  struck 
off  by  the  sweep  of  a  compass."  From  it  in  a  clear  day 
may  be  seen  Mount  Washington,  ninety-eight  miles  away  ; 
the  Ossipee  range;  Passaconaway;  Whiteface  ;  Kearsarge 
in  Warner ;  Monadnock  ;  Wachusett ;  Agamenticus  and 
Bonny  Beag  in  Maine  ;  the  Isles  of  Shoals  with  White 
Island  light ;  Boon  Island  in  Maine  ;  and  nearer  at  hand 
Newburyport  with  its  harbor  and  bay  ;  Plum  Island  ;  Cape 
Ann  ;  Salisbury  and  Hampton  beaches  ;  Boar's  Head  and 
Little  Boar's  Head ;  Crane  Neck  and  many  other  of  the 
beautiful  hills  of  Newbury,  Rowley,  Ipswich,  and  Dan- 
vers.  The  view  of  Cape  Ann  as  seen  from  Po  Hill  is 
referred  to  by  Whittier  at  the  opening  of  the  poem  "  The 
Garrison  of  Cape  Ann  :  "  — 

"  From  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath  the  tent-like 

span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland  of  Cape  Ann." 

Down  the  south  side  of  the  Po  flows  the  Powow  River  in 
a  series  of  cascades,  the  finest  of  which  are  now  hidden 
by  the  mills,  or  arched  over  by  the  main  street  of  the 
village  of  Amesbury.  The  hill  is  celebrated  in  several 
of  Whittier's  poems,  including  "  Abram  Morrison,"  "  Mir- 
iam," and  "  Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision."  The  Powow,  a 
little  way  above  its  plunge  over  the  rocks  where  it  gives 
power  for  the  mills,  flows  in  front  of  the  Whittier  home, 
and  but  the  width  of  a  block  distant.  The  surface  of 
its  swift  current  is  but  a  few  feet  below  the  level  of 


AMESBURY 


THE    FOUNTAIN,  ON    MUNDY    HILL 

Friend  Street.  Po  Hill  rises  steeply  from  its  left  bank.  The 
Powow  is  mentioned  in  the  poem  "  The  Fountain  :  "  — 

"  Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam." 

"  The  Fountain  "  is  a  spring  that  may  be  found  on 
the  western  side  of  Mundy  Hill.  The  oak  mentioned  in 
this  poem  is  gone,  and  a  willow  takes  its  place.  The 
Rocky  Hill  meeting-house  is  well  worth  the  attention  of 


88 


WHITTIER-LAND 


visitors,  as  a  well-preserved  specimen  of  the  meeting- 
houses of  the  olden  time.  Its  pulpit,  pews,  and  galleries 
retain  their  original  form  as  when  built  in  1785.  It  is  situ- 
ated on  the  easternmost  of  the  fine  circlet  of  hills  that 


ROCKY   HILL  CHURCH,  BUILT  IN   1785 


incloses  the  valley  of  the  Powow.  This  hill  is  well  named, 
for  here  the  melting  glaciers  left  their  most  abundant  de- 
posit of  boulders.  A  trolley  line  from  Amesbury  to  Salis- 
bury Beach  passes  this  venerable  edifice. 

Salisbury  Beach,  now  covered  with  summer  cottages, 
will  hardly  be  recognized  as  the  place  described  by  Whit- 
tier  in  his  "Tent  on  the  Beach."  When  that  poem  was 
written,  not  one  of  these  hundreds  of  cottages  was  built, 
and  those  who  encamped  here  brought  tents.  Hampton 
Beach  is  a  continuation  of  Salisbury  Beach  beyond  the 
state  line  into  New  Hampshire.  It  has  given  its  name  to 
one  of  the  most  notable  of  Whittier's  poems,  and  several 
ballads  refer  to  it.  "  The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth  "  has  for 
its  scene  the  mouth  of  the  Hampton  River,  which,  wind- 
ing down  from  the  uplands  across  salt  meadows,  and 
dividing  this  beach,  finds  its  outlet  to  the  sea.  At  the 


AMESBURY  89 

northern  end  of  the  beach  is  the  picturesque  promontory 
of  Boar's  Head,  and  eastward  are  seen  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
and  in  the  further  distance  the  blue  disk  of  Agamenticus. 
Whittier  describes  the  place  with  his  usual  exactness :  — 

"  And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 

East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 
And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er ; 
And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 
'Twixt  white  sea -waves  and  sand-hills  brown, 
The  beach -birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls  wheel 
Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel." 

Rev.  J.  C.  Fletcher,  in  an  article  published  in  1879, 
says  that  he  was  with  Whittier  at  Salisbury  Beach',  in 


INTERIOR   OF   ROCKY    HILL  CHURCH 

the  summer  of  1861,  when  he  saw  the  remarkable  mi- 
rage commemorated  in  these  lines  in  "  The  Tent  on  the 
Beach  :"- 

"  Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day, 
They  watched  the  spectral  mirage  play; 
Saw  low,  far  islands  looming  tall  and  nigh, 
And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like  a  sea  the  sky." 


90  WHITTIER-LAND 

Mr.  Fletcher  was  spending  several  weeks  that  summer 
with  his  family  in  a  tent  on  the  beach.  He  says  :  "  Here  we 
were  visited  by  friends  from  Newburyport  and  Amesbury. 
None  were  more  welcome  than  Whittier  and  his  sister, 
and  two  nieces,  one  of  whom,  Lizzie,  as  we  called  her, 
had  the  beautiful  eyes  —  the  grand  features  in  both  the 
poet  and  his  sister.  Those  eyes  of  his  sister  Elizabeth 


MOUTH   OF   HAMPTON  RIVER 
Scene  of  "  The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth  " 

are  most  touchingly  alluded  to  by  Whittier  when  he  refers 
to  his  sister's  childhood  in  the  old  Snow-bound  home- 
stead :  — 

" '  Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 
Now  bathed  in  the  unfading  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise.' 

One  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  I  recall  how  Elizabeth  was 
enjoying  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  family  tent,  while  Whittier 
and  myself  were  seated  upon  a  hillock  of  sand  outside. 
It  had  been  a  peculiarly  beautiful  day,  and  as  the  sun 
began  to  decline,  the  calm  sea  was  lit  up  with  a  dreamy 
grandeur  wherein  there  seemed  a  mingling  of  rose-tint  and 
color  of  pearls.  All  at  once  we  noticed  that  the  far-off 


AMESBURY 


SALISBURY  BEACH,  BEFORE  THE  COTTAGES  WERE  BUILT 
Scene  of  "  The  Tent  on  the  Beach  " 

Isles  of  Shoals,  of  which  in  clear  days  only  the  lighthouse 
could  be  seen,  were  lifted  into  the  air,  and  the  vessels 
out  at  sea  were  seen  floating  in  the  heavens.  Whittier 
told  me  that  he  never  before  witnessed  such  a  sight.  We 
called  to  the  friends  in  the  tent  to  come  and  enjoy  the 
scene  with  us.  Elizabeth  Whittier  was  then  seeing  from 
the  shore  the  very  island,  reduplicated  in  the  sky,  where 
two  years  afterwards  she  met  that  fatal  accident  which, 
after  months  of  suffering,  terminated  her  existence." 


92 


WHITTIER-LAND 


Elizabeth  fell  upon  the  rocks  at  Appledore  in  August, 
1863.  It  was  not  thought  at  the  time  that  she  was  seri- 
ously injured,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Fletcher  is  wrong  in  at- 
tributing her  death  solely  to  this  cause.  For  many  years 
before  and  after  the  death  of  his  sister,  Mr.  Whittier  spent 
some  days  each  summer  at  Appledore.  It  was  at  his  in- 
sistence that  Celia  Thaxter  undertook  her  charming  book, 
"  Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals." 

Other  ballads  of  this  region  are  "  The  Changeling," 
and  "The  New  Wife  and  the  Old."  The  ancient  house 
which  is  the  scene  of  the  last  named  poem  is  still  stand- 
ing, and  may  be  seen  by  passengers  on  the  Boston  and 
Maine  road,  near  the  Hampton  station.  It  has  a  gambrel 


HAMPTON   RIVER  MARSHES 


roof,  and  is  on  the  left  when  the  train  is  going  westward. 
On  the  right  as  the  train  passes  Hampton  Falls  station 
may  be  seen  in  the  distance,  shaded  by  magnificent  elms, 
the  house  of  Miss  Gove,  in  which  Whittier  died.  It  was 
upon  these  broad  meadows  and  the  distant  line  of  the 
beach  that  his  eyes  rested,  when  he  took  his  last  look 


AMESBURY 


93 


upon  the  scenery  he  loved  and  has  so  faithfully  pictured 
in  his  verse.  The  photographs  here  reproduced  were  taken 
by  his  grandnephew  a  few  days  before  his  death,  and  the 


HOUSE  OF   MISS   GOVE,    HAMPTON    FALLS 

last  time  he  stood  on  the  balcony  where  his  form  appears. 
The  room  in  which  he  died  opens  upon  this  balcony.  It 
was  his  cousin,  Joseph  Cartland,  who  happened  to  stand 
by  his  left  side  when  the  picture  was  taken.  This  house 
is  worthy  of  notice  aside  from  its  connection  with  Whit- 
tier,  as  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  colonial  architec- 
ture, its  rooms  filled  with  the  furniture  and  heirlooms  of 
the  ancestors  of  the  present  proprietor.  A  trolley  line 
from  Amesbury  now  passes  the  house. 

As  a  coincidence  that  was  at  the  time  considered  sin- 
gular, the  superstition  in  regard  to  the  matter  of  thirteen 
at  table  was  recalled  when  Whittier  dined  for  the  last 
time  with  his  friends.  During  the  summer  he  had  lodged 
at  the  house  of  Miss  Gove,  taking  his  meals  with  others 
of  his  party  in  a  house  adjoining.  One  evening  all  had 


94  WHITTIER-LAND 

taken  their  places  at  the  table  except  Mr.  Whittier.  His 
niece  noticed  there  were  twelve  seated,  and  without  com- 
ment took  her  plate  to  a  small  table  in  a  corner  of  the 
room.  When  her  uncle  came  in, "he  said  in  a  cheery  way, 
"  Why,  Lizzie,  what  has  thee  been  doing,  that  they  put 
thee  in  the  corner  ?  "  Some  evasive  reply  was  made,  but 
probably  Mr.  Whittier  guessed  the  reason,  for  he  was 
well  versed  in  such  superstitions,  and  sometimes  laugh- 
ingly heeded  them.  In  a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Wakeman, 
the  Baptist  clergyman  of  the  village,  just  returned  from 


CHAMBER   IN   WHICH   WHITTIER   DIED 

his  summer  vacation,  came  in  unexpectedly,  and  took  the 
thirteenth  seat  that  had  just  been  vacated.  Whittier's 
grandnephew,  to  again  break  the  omen,  took  his  plate 
over  to  the  table  in  the  corner  with  his  mother.  It  was 
all  done  in  a  playful  way,  but  the  matter  was  recalled 
while  we  were  at  breakfast  next  morning.  The  news  then 
came  of  the  paralysis  which  had  affected  Mr.  Whittier 
while  dressing  to  join  us.  He  never  again  came  to  the 
dining  room.  Another  incident  of  the  same  evening  was 
more  impressive,  and  remains  to  this  day  inexplicable. 
After  sitting  for  a  while  in  the  parlor  conversing  with 


AMESBURY 


95 


friends,  he  took  his  candle  to  retire,  and  as  he  said  "Good- 
night" to  his  friends,  and  passed  out  of  the  door,  an  old 
clock  (the  clock  over  the  desk)  struck  once  !  It  had  not 
been  wound  up  for  years,  and  as  no  one  present  had  ever 
before  heard  it  strike,  it  excited  surprise  —  the  more  so 
as  the  hands  were  not  in  position  for  striking.  It  was 
an  incident  that  had  a  marked  effect  upon  a  party  little 


AMESBURY  PUBLIC   LIBRARY 

inclined  to  heed  omens ;  and  in  many  ways,  without  suc- 
cess, we  tried  to  get  the  clock  to  strike  once  more. 

A  beautiful  little  lake  in  the  northern  part  of  Ames- 
bury,  formerly  known  as  Kimball's  Pond,  is  the  scene  of 
"  The  Maids  of  Attitash."  Its  present  name  was  con- 
ferred by  Whittier  because  huckleberries  abound  in  this 
region,  and  Attitash  is  the  Indian  name  for  this  berry. 
His  poem  pictures  the  maidens  with  "baskets  berry-filled," 
watching 

.  .  .  "  in  idle  mood 
The  gleam  and  shade  of  lake  and  wood." 

In  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  "  The  Atlantic"  inclosing  this 
ballad,  he  says  of  Attitash  :  "  It  is  as  pretty  as  St.  Mary's 


96  WHITTIER-LAND 

Lake  which  Wordsworth  sings,  in  fact  a  great  deal  pret- 
tier. The  glimpse  of  the  Pawtuckaway  range  of  moun- 
tains in  Nottingham  seen  across  it  is  very  fine,  and  it  has 
noble  groves  of  pines  and  maples  and  ash  trees."  A 
trolley  line  from  Amesbury  to  Haverhill  passes  this  lake  ; 
but  this  is  not  the  line  which  passes  the  Whittier  birth- 
place. 

Annually,  in  the  month  of  May,  the  Quarterly  Meeting 
of  the  Society  of  Friends  is  held  at  Amesbury,  and  during 
the  fifty-six  years  of  Mr.  Whittier's  residence  in  the  vil- 
lage, this  was  an  occasion  on  which  he  kept  open  house, 
and  wherever  he  happened  to  be,  he  came  home  to  enjoy 
the  company  of  friends,  giving  up  all  other  engagements. 
He  could  not  be  detained  in  Boston  or  Danvers,  or  wher- 
ever else  he  might  be,  when  the  time  for  this  meeting 
approached.  It  was  an  annual  event  in  which  his  mother 
and  sister  took  much  interest,  and  after  they  passed  away, 
the  custom  was  maintained  with  the  same  spirit  of  hos- 
pitality with  which  they  had  invested  it,  to  the  last  year 
of  his  life. 

Among  Mr.  Whittier's  neighbors  was  an  aged  pair,  a 
brother  and  sister,  whose  simple,  old-fashioned  ways  and 
quaint  conversation  he  much  enjoyed.  He  thought  they 
worked  harder  than  they  had  need  to  do,  as  the  infirmi- 
ties of  age  fell  upon  them,  for  they  had  accumulated  a 
competency,  and  on  one  occasion  he  suggested  that  they 
leave  for  younger  hands  some  of  the  labor  to  which  they 
had  been  accustomed.  But  the  sister  said,  "We  must  lay 
by  something  for  our  last  sickness,  and  have  enough  left 
to  bury  us."  Whittier  replied,  "  Mary,  did  thee  ever  know 
any  one  in  his  last  sickness  to  stick  by  the  way  for  want 
of  funds  ? "  The  beautiful  public  library  of  Amesbury 
was  built  with  the  money  of  this  aged  pair,  whose  will  was 
made  at  the  suggestion  of  Whittier.  Part  of  the  money 
Whittier  left  to  hospitals  and  schools  would  have  been 
given  to  this  library,  had  he  not  known  that  it  was  pro- 
vided for  by  his  generous  neighbors. 


AMESBURY 


97 


In  his  poem  "  The  Common  Question,"  Whittier  re- 
fers to  a  saying  of  his  pet  parrot,  "  Charlie,"  a  bird  that 
afforded  him  much  amusement,  and  sometimes  annoyance, 
by  his  tricks  and  manners.  His  long  residence  in  this 


WHITTIER  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FORTY-NINE 

Quaker  household  had  the  effect  to  temper  his  vocabu- 
lary, and  he  almost  forgot  some  phrases  his  ungodly  cap- 
tors had  taught  him.  But  there  would  be  occasional  re- 
lapses. He  had  the  freedom  of  the  house,  for  Whittier 
objected  to  having  him  caged.  One  Sunday  morning, 
when  people  were  passing  on  the  way  to  meeting,  Charlie 
had  gained  access  to  the  roof,  and  mounted  one  of  the 


98  WHITTIER-LAND 

chimneys.  There  he  stood,  dancing  and  using  language 
he  unfortunately  had  not  quite  forgotten,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  church-goers!  Whatever  Quaker  discipline 
he  received  on  this  occasion  did  not  cure  him  of  the 
chimney  habit,  but  some  time  later  he  was  effectually 
cured  ;  for  while  dancing  on  this  high  perch  he  fell  down 
one  of  the  flues  and  was  lost  for  some  days.  At  last  his 
stifled  voice  was  heard  in  the  parlor,  in  the  wall  over  the 
mantel.  A  pole  was  let  down  the  flue  and  he  was  rescued, 
but  so  sadly  demoralized  that  he  could  only  faintly 
whisper,  "  What  does  Charlie  want  ? "  He  died  from  the 
effect  of  this  accident,  but  we  will  not  dismiss  him  with- 
out another  story  in  which  he  figures  :  He  had  the  bad 
habit  of  nipping  at  the  leg  of  a  person  whose  trousers 
happened  to  be  hitched  above  the  top  of  the  boot.  One 
day  Mr.  Whittier  was  being  worn  out  by  a  prosy  harangue 
from  a  visitor  who  sat  in  a  rocking-chair,  and  swayed 
back  and  forth  as  he  talked.  As  he  rocked,  Whittier 
noticed  that  his  trousers  were  reaching  the  point  of  dan- 
ger, and  now  at  length  he  had  something  that  interested 
him.  Charlie  was  sidling  up  unseen  by  the  orator.  There 
was  a  little  nip  followed  by  a  sharp  exclamation,  and  the 
thread  of  the  discourse  was  broken !  The  relieved  poet 
now  had  the  floor  as  an  apologist  for  his  discourteous 
parrot. 

At  a  time  when  Salmon  P.  Chase  was  in  Lincoln's  Cab- 
inet, but  was  beginning  to  think  of  the  possibility  of  sup- 
planting him  at  the  next  presidential  election,  he  visited 
Massachusetts,  and  called  upon  his  old  anti-slavery  friend, 
Mr.  Whittier.  Chase  told  him  among  other  things  that 
he  did  not  like  Abraham  Lincoln's  stories.  Whittier  said, 
"But  do  they  not  always  have  an  application,  like  the 
parables?"  "Oh,  yes,"  said  Chase,  "but  they  are  not 
decent  like  the  parables  !  " 

Henry  Taylor  was  a  village  philosopher  of  Amesbury 
given  to  the  discussion  of  high  themes  in  a  somewhat 
eccentric  manner,  and  Whittier  had  a  warm  side  for  such 


AMESBURY 


99 


odd  characters.  Once  when  Emerson  was  his  guest,  he 
invited  Taylor  to  meet  him,  knowing  that  the  Concord 
philosopher  would  be  amused  if  not  otherwise  interested 
in  his  Amesbury  brother.  Taylor  found  him  a  good  lis- 
tener, and  gave  him  the  full  benefit  of  his  theories  and 
imaginings.  Next  morning  Whittier  called  on  him  to  in- 
quire what  he  thought  of  Emerson.  "Oh,"  said  he,  "I 
find  your  friend  a  very  intelligent  man.  He  has  adopted 
some  of  my  ideas." 

The  likeness  of  Whittier  on  page  97  is  from  a  daguerreo- 
type taken  in  October,  1856,  and  has  never  before  been 


THE  WOOD  GIANT,  AT  STURTEVANT'S,  CENTRE  HARBOR 

"  Alone,  the  level  sun  before  ; 

Below,  the  lake's  green  islands ; 
Beyond,  in  misty  distance  dim, 
The  rugged  Northern  Highlands." 

published  in  any  volume  written  by  or  about  the  poet. 
Mr.  Thomas  E.  Boutelle,  the  artist  who  took  this  daguerre- 
otype, is  now  living  in  Amesbury  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
five.  He  tells  me  how  he  happened  to  get  this  picture,  — 
a  rather  difficult  feat,  as  it  was  hard  to  induce  the  poet  to 
sit  for  his  portrait.  He  had  set  up  a  daguerrean  saloon  in 
the  little  square  near  Whittier's  house,  and  Whittier  often 


ioo  WHITTIER-LAND 

came  in  for  a  social  chat,  but  persistently  refused  to  give 
a  sitting.  One  day  he  came  in  with  his  younger  brother 
Franklin,  whose  picture  he  wanted.  When  it  was  finished, 
Franklin  said,  "  Now,  Greenleaf,  I  want  your  picture." 
After  much  persuasion  Greenleaf  consented,  and  Mr. 
Boutelle  showed  him  the  plate  before  it  was  fully  devel- 
oped, with  the  remark  that  he  thought  he  could  do  better 
if  he  might  try  again.  By  this  bit  of  strategy  he  secured 
the  extra  daguerreotype  here  reproduced,  but  he  took  care 
not  to  show  it  in  Amesbury,  for  fear  Whittier  would  call 
it  in.  He  took  it  to  Exeter,  N.  H.,  and  put  it  in  a  show- 
case at  his  door.  His  saloon  was  burned,  and  all  he  saved 
was  this  show-case  and  the  daguerreotype,  which  many  of 
the  poet's  old  friends  think  to  be  his  best  likeness  of  that 
period. 

Several  of  Whittier's  poems  referring  to  New  Hampshire 
scenery  celebrate  particular  trees  remarkable  for  age  and 
size.  For  these  giants  of  the  primeval  forest  he  ever  had 
a  loving  admiration.  The  great  elms  that  shade  the  house 
in  which  he  died  would  no  doubt  have  had  tribute  in  verse 
if  his  life  had  been  spared.  He  invited  the  attention  of 
every  visitor  to  them.  The  immense  pine  on  the  Sturte- 
vant  farm,  near  Centre  Harbor,  called  out  a  magnificent 
tribute  in  his  poem  "The  Wood  Giant."  Our  engraving 
on  page  99  gives  some  idea  of  "  the  Anakim  of  pines." 
There  is  a  grove  at  Lee,  N.  H.,  on  the  estate  of  his  dearly- 
loved  cousins,  the  Cartlands,  to  which  he  refers  in  his 
poem  "  A  Memorial :  "  — 

"  Green  be  those  hillside  pines  forever, 

And  green  the  meadowy  lowlands  be, 
And  green  the  old  memorial  beeches, 
Name-carven  in  the  woods  of  Lee  !  " 

There  is  a  "  Whittier  Elm  "  at  West  Ossipee,  and  indeed 
wherever  he  chose  a  summer  resort,  some  wood  giant  still 
bears  his  name. 

Visitors  to  Whittier-Land  will  find  an  excursion  to  Oak 


AMESBURY  101 

Knoll,  in  Danvers,  to  be  full  of  interest.  Here  the  poet, 
after  the  marriage  of  his  niece,  spent  a  large  part  of  each 
of  the  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life  in  the  family  of  his 
cousins,  the  Misses  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Woodman.  With- 
out giving  up  his  residence  in  Amesbury,  where  his  house 
was  always  kept  open  for  him  during  these  years  by  Hon. 
George  W.  Gate,  he  found  in  the  beautiful  seclusion  of 
the  fine  estate  at  Oak  Knoll  a  restful  and  congenial  home. 
Many  souvenirs  of  the  poet  are  here  treasured,  and  the 
historical  associations  of  the  place  are  worthy  of  note. 
Here  lived  the  Rev.  George  Burroughs,  who  suffered  death 
as  a  wizard  more  than  two  centuries  ago.  He  was  a  man 


THE  CARTLAND  HOUSE,  NEWBURYPORT 

Where  Whittier  spent  the  last  winter  of  his  life.     A  century  ago  the  residence  of 
the  father  of  Harriet  Livermore 

of  immense  strength  of  muscle,  and  his  astonishing  ath- 
letic feats  were  cited  at  his  trial  as  evidence  of  his  dealings 
with  the  Evil  One.  The  well  of  his  homestead  is  shown 
under  the  boughs  of  an  immense  elm,  and  the  canopy  now 
over  it  was  the  sounding-board  of  the  pulpit  of  an  ancient 


102  WHITTIER-LAND 

church  of  the  parish  so  unenviably  identified  with  the 
witchcraft  delusion. 

Inquiries  are  sometimes  made  in  regard  to  the  places 
in  Boston  associated  with  the  memory  of  Whittier.  His 
first  visit  to  the  city  was  in  his  boyhood,  when  he  came  as 
the  guest  of  Nathaniel  Greene,  a  distant  kinsman  of  his, 
who  was  editor  of  the  "  Statesman  "  and  postmaster  of 
Boston.  Many  of  his  earliest  poems  were  published  in  the 
"  Statesman  "  under  assumed  names,  and  until  lately  never 
recognized  as  his.  Not  one  of  these  juvenile  productions, 
of  which  I  have  happened  upon  many  specimens,  was  ever 
collected.  When  he  was  editing  the  "Manufacturer,"  he 
boarded  with  the  publisher  of  that  paper,  Rev.  Mr.  Col- 
lier, at  No.  30  Federal  Street.  When  visiting  Boston  in 
middle  life,  he  felt  most  at  home  in  the  old  Marlboro 
Hotel  on  Washington  Street.  He  would  often  leave  the 
hotel  for  a  morning  walk,  and  find  a  hearty  welcome  at 
the  breakfast  hour  from  his  dear  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
James  T.  Fields,  at  No.  148  Charles  Street.  In  later  life, 
at  the  home  of  Governor  Claflin,  at  No.  63  Mount  Vernon 
Street,  he  was  frequently  an  honored  guest.  It  was  here 
he  first  met  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  who  gives  this  ac- 
count of  their  meeting :  "  On  this  morning  he  came  in 
across  the  thick  carpet  with  that  nervous  but  soft  step 
which  every  one  who  ever  saw  him  remembers.  Straight 
as  his  own  pine  tree,  high  of  stature,  and  lofty  of  mien, 
he  moved  like  a  flash  of  light  or  thought.  The  first  impres- 
sion which  one  received  was  of  such  eagerness  to  see 
his  friends  that  his  heart  outran  his  feet.  He  seemed 
to  suppose  that  he  was  receiving,  not  extending  the  bene- 
diction ;  and  he  offered  the  delicate  tribute  to  his  friend 
of  allowing  him  to  perceive  the  sense  of  debt.  It  would 
have  been  the  subtlest  flattery,  had  he  not  been  the  most 
honest  and  straightforward  of  men.  We  talked  —  how  can 
I  say  of  what  ?  Or  of  what  not  ?  We  talked  till  our  heads 
ached  and  our  throats  were  sore  ;  and  when  we  had  fin- 
ished we  began  again.  I  remember  being  surprised  at  his 


AMESBURY 


103 


quick,  almost  boyish,  sense  of  fun,  and  at  the  ease  with 
which  he  rose  from  it  into  the  atmosphere  of  the  gravest, 
even  the  most  solemn,  discussion.  He  was  a  delightful 
converser,  amusing,  restful,  stimulating,  and  inspiring 
at  once."  The  winter  of  1882-83  he  spent  at  the  Win- 
throp  Hotel,  on  Bowdoin  Street,  where  the  Commonwealth 
Hotel  now  stands. 

A  visit  to  Whittier-Land  is  incomplete  if  Old  Newbury 
and  Newburyport  (originally  one  town)  are  left  out  of  the 


WHITEFIELD'S  CHURCH  AND  BIRTHPLACE  OF  GARRISON 

itinerary.  At  the  celebration  of  the  two  hundred  and  fif- 
tieth anniversary  of  the  settlement  of  Newbury,  in  1885, 
a  letter  from  Whittier  was  read  in  which  he  recites  some 
of  the  reasons  for  his  interest  in  the  town.  He  says  :  "Al- 
though I  can  hardly  call  myself  a  son  of  the  ancient  town, 
my  grandmother,  Sarah  Greenleaf  of  blessed  memory,  was 
its  daughter,  and  I  may  therefore  claim  to  be  its  grandson. 
Its  genial  and  learned  historian,  Joshua  Coffin,  was  my 
first  school-teacher,  and  all  my  life  I  have  lived  in  sight 
of  its  green  hills,  and  in  hearing  of  its  Sabbath  bells.  Its 


104  WHITTIER-LAND 

history  and  legends  are  familiar  to  me.  .  .  .  The  town 
took  no  part  in  the  witchcraft  horror,  and  got  none  of 
its  old  women  and  town  charges  hanged  for  witches. 
'  Goody  '  Morse  had  the  spirit  rappings  in  her  house  two 
hundred  years  earlier  than  the  Fox  girls  did,  and  some- 
what later  a  Newbury  minister  in  wig  and  knee-buckles 
rode,  Bible  in  hand,  over  to  Hampton  to  lay  a  ghost  who 
had  materialized  himself  and  was  stamping  up  and  down 
stairs  in  his  military  boots.  .  .  .  Whitefield  set  the  example 
since  followed  by  the  Salvation  Army,  of  preaching  in  its 
streets,  and  now  lies  buried  under  one  of  the  churches  with 
almost  the  honor  of  sainthood.  William  Lloyd  Garrison 
was  born  in  Newbury.  The  town  must  be  regarded  as 
the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  the  anti-slavery  agitation." 

The  grandmother  to  whom  he  refers  was  born  in  that 
part  of  the  town  nearest  to  his  own  birthplace.  The  out- 
let to  Country  Brook  is  nearly  opposite  the  Greenleaf 
place,  and  Whittier's  poem  "  The  Home-Coming  of  the 
Bride  "  describes  the  crossing  of  the  river  and  the  bridal 
procession  up  the  valley  of  the  lesser  stream,  a  part  of 
which  is  known  as  Millvale  because  of  the  mills  alluded 
to  in  the  poem. 

The  house  in  which  Garrison  was  born  is  on  School 
Street  next  to  the  Old  South  meeting-house,  in  which 
Whitefield  preached,  and  under  the  pulpit  of  which  his 
bones  are  deposited.  Whitefield  died  in  the  house  next 
to  Garrison's  birthplace.  The  ancient  Coffin  house,  built 
in  1645,  t^ie  norne  °f  Joshua  Coffin,  to  whom  Whittier  ad- 
dressed his  poem  "  To  My  Old  Schoolmaster,"  is  on  High 
Street  about  half  a  mile  below  State  Street.  Whittier's 
cousins,  Joseph  and  Gertrude  Cartland,  with  whom  he 
spent  a  large  part  of  the  last  year  of  his  life,  lived  at 
No.  244  High  Street,  at  the  corner  of  Broad. 


WHITTIER'S   SENSE    OF    HUMOR 


Ill 

WHITTIER'S  SENSE  OF  HUMOR 

FEW  men  of  his  day,  of  equal  prominence,  have  been 
so  greatly  misunderstood  as  Whittier  by  the  public  which 
knows  him  only  by  the  writings  he  allowed  to  be  published. 
These  reveal  him  on  the  one  hand  as  an  earnest  reformer 
bitterly  denouncing  the  sins  of  a  guilty  people,  and  on 
the  other  as  a  prophet  of  God,  with  a  message  of  cheer 
to  those  who  turn  them  from  their  evil  ways.  While 
slavery  existed,  he  lashed  the  institution  with  a  whip  of 
scorpions,  and  in  later  years,  in  poems  of  exquisite  sweet- 
ness, he  sang  of  "  The  Eternal  Goodness,"  and  brought 
words  of  consolation  and  hope  to  despairing  souls.  In 
the  popular  mind  there  has  been  built  up  for  him  a  repu- 
tation for  extreme  seriousness  and  even  severity.  To  be 
sure,  some  of  the  poems  in  his  collected  works  have  witty 
and  even  merry  lines,  but  they  usually  have  a  serious 
purpose.  The  real  fun  and  frolic  of  his  nature  were 
known  only  to  those  privileged  with  his  intimacy.  He 
delighted  at  times  in  throwing  off  his  mantle  of  prophecy, 
and  unbending  even  to  jollity,  in  his  home  life  and  among 
friends.  The  presence  of  a  stranger  was  a  check  to  such 
exuberance.  And  it  was  not  from  any  unsocial  habit  that 
he  fell  into  this  restraint.  It  was  because  he  found  that 
the  unguarded  words  of  a  public  man  are  often  given  a 
weight  they  were  not  intended  to  bear.  If  he  unbent  as 
one  might  whose  every  word  has  not  come  to  be  thought 
of  value,  it  led  to  misunderstandings.  In  his  home  and 
among  near  friends  he  revealed  a  charming  readiness  to 
engage  in  lively  and  frolicsome  conversation. 


io8  WHITTIER-LAND 

Some  stories  illustrating  his  keen  sense  of  humor,  and 
specimens  of  verse  written  in  rollicking  vein  for  special 
occasions,  which  might  not  properly  find  place  in  a  seri- 
ous attempt  at  biography,  I  have  thought  might  be  al- 
lowed in  such  an  informal  work  as  this.  Few  of  the  lines 
I  shall  here  give  have  ever  appeared  in  any  of  his  col- 
lected works,  and  some  of  them  were  never  before  in 
print.  I  am  sure  I  do  no  wrong  to  his  memory  in  thus 
bringing  out  a  phase  of  his  character  which  could  not  be 
fully  treated  in  biography. 

I  never  heard  him  laugh  aloud,  but  a  merrier  face  and 
an  eye  that  twinkled  with  livelier  glee  when  thoroughly 
amused  are  not  often  seen.  He  would  double  up  with 
mirth  without  uttering  a  sound, —  his  chuckle  being  visi- 
ble instead  of  audible,  — :  but  this  peculiar  expression  of 
jollity  was  irresistibly  infectious.  The  faculty  of  seeing 
the  humorous  side  of  things  he  considered  a  blessing  to 
be  coveted,  and  he  had  a  special  pity  for  that  class  of 
philanthropists  who  cannot  find  a  laugh  in  the  midst  of 
the  miseries  they  would  alleviate.  A  laugh  rested  him, 
and  any  teller  of  good  stories,  any  writer  of  lively  ad- 
ventures, received  a  hearty  greeting  from  him.  He  told 
Dickens  that  his  "  Pickwick  Papers  "  had  for  years  been 
his  remedy  for  insomnia,  and  Sam  Weller  had  helped  him 
to  many  an  hour  of  rested  nerves.  He  loved  and  admired 
Longfellow  and  Lowell,  and  they  were  his  most  cherished 
friends,  but  the  lively  wit  of  Holmes  had  a  special  charm 
for  him,  and  jolly  times  they  had  whenever  they  met. 
The  witty  talk  and  merry  letters  of  Gail  Hamilton,  full 
as  they  were  of  a  mad  revelry  of  nonsense,  were  a  great 
delight  to  him.  It  was  not  in  praise  of  but  in  pity  for 
Charles  Sumner  that  he  wrote  :  — 

"  No  sense  of  humor  dropped  its  oil 

On  the  hard  ways  his  purpose  went ; 
Small  play  of  fancy  lightened  toil ; 
He  spake  alone  the  thing  he  meant." 

As  an  illustration  of  his  own  way  of  speaking  the  thing 


WHITTIER'S    SENSE   OF   HUMOR  109 

he  did  itot  mean,  just  for  fun,  take  the  following  :  More 
than  thirty  years  ago,  a  Division  of  the  Sons  of  Temper- 
ance was  organized  in  Amesbury,  and  his  niece,  one  of 
his  household,  joined  it.  Her  turn  came  to  edit  a  paper 
for  the  Division,  and  she  asked  her  uncle  to  contribute 
something.  He  had  often  complained  in  a  laughing  way 
in  regard  to  the  late  hours  of  the  club,  and  had  threat- 
ened to  lock  her  out.  This  accounts  for  the  tone  of  the 
following  remarkable  contribution  to  temperance  litera- 
ture from  one  of  the  oldest  friends  of  the  cause  :  — 

THE    DIVISION 

"  Dogs  take  it !    Still  the  girls  are  out," 

Said  Muggins,  bedward  groping, 
"  'T  is  twelve  o'clock,  or  thereabout, 

And  all  the  doors  are  open ! 
I  '11  lock  the  doors  another  night, 

And  give  to  none  admission  ; 
Better  to  be  abed  and  tight 
Than  sober  at  Division  !  " 

Next  night  at  ten  o'clock,  or  more 

Or  less,  by  Muggins's  guessing,         . 
He  went  to  bolt  the  outside  door, 

And  lo  !  the  key  was  missing. 
He  muttered,  scratched  his  head,  and  quick 

He  came  to  this  decision  : 
"  Here 's  something  new  in  'rithmetic, 

Subtraction  by  Division  I 

"  And  then,"  said  he,  "  it  puzzles  me, 

I  cannot  get  the  right  on't, 
Why  temperance  talk  and  whiskey  spree 

Alike  should  make  a  night  on  't. 
D  'ye  give  it  up  ?  "   In  Muggins's  voice 

Was  something  like  derision  — 
"  It 's  just  because  between  the  boys 
And  girls  there  's  no  Division  !  " 

Whittier's  favorite  way  of  enjoying  his  annual  vacation 
among  the  mountains  was  to  go  with  a  party  of  his  rela- 


no 


WHITTIER-LAND 


tives  and  neighbors,  and  take  possession  of  a  little  inn  at 
West  Ossipee,  known  as  the  "  Bearcamp  House."  Sturte- 
vant's,  at  Centre  Harbor,  was  another  of  his  resorts.  At 
these  places  his  party  filled  nearly  every  room.  It  was 
made  up  largely  of  young  people,  full  of  frolic  and  love  of 
adventure.  The  aged  poet  could  not  climb  with  them  to 
the  tops  of  the  mountains  ;  but  he  watched  their  going  and 


BEARCAMP   HOUSE,  WEST   OSSIPEE,  N.  H. 

coming  with  lively  interest,  and  of  an  evening  listened  to 
their  reports  and  laughed  over  the  effervescence  of  their 
enthusiasm.  Two  young  farmers  of  West  Ossipee,  brothers 
named  Knox,  acted  as  guides  to  Chocorua.  They  had 
some  success  as  bear  hunters,  and  supplied  the  inn  with 


WHITTIER'S    SENSE   OF    HUMOR  in 

bear  steaks.  One  day  in  September,  1876,  the  Knox 
brothers  took  a  party  of  seven  of  Whittier's  friends  to  the 
top  of  Chocorua,  where  they  camped  for  the  night  among 
the  traps  that  had  been  set  for  the  bears.  They  heard  the 
growling  of  the  bears  in  the  night,  so  the  young  ladies 
reported,  with  other  blood-curdling  incidents.  Soon  after 
the  Knox  brothers  gave  a  husking  at  their  barn,1  and  the 
whole  Bearcamp  party  was  invited.  Whittier  wrote  a  poem 
for  the  occasion,  and  induced  Lucy  Larcom  to  read  it  for 
him  as  from  an  unknown  author,  although  he  sat  among 
the  huskers.  It  was  entitled  :  — 

HOW    THEY   CLIMBED   CHOCORUA 

Unto  gallant  deeds  belong 
Poet's  rhyme  and  singer's  song ; 
Nor  for  lack  of  pen  or  tongue 
Should  their  praises  be  unsung, 

Who  climbed  Chocorua ! 

O  full  long  shall  they  remember 
That  wild  nightfall  of  September, 
When  aweary  of  their  tramp 
They  set  up  their  canvas  camp 

In  the  hemlocks  of  Chocorua. 

There  the  mountain  winds  were  howling, 
There  the  mountain  bears  were  prowling, 
And  through  rain  showers  falling  drizzly 
Glared  upon  them,  grim  and  grisly, 
The  ghost  of  old  Chocorua ! 

On  the  rocks  with  night  mist  wetted, 
Keen  his  scalping  knife  he  whetted, 
For  the  ruddy  firelight  dancing 
On  the  brown  locks  of  Miss  Lansing, 
Tempted  old  Chocorua. 

1  The  house  of  these  brothers  and  the  barn  in  which  the  husking 
was  held  may  be  seen  near  the  West  Ossipee  station  of  the  Boston 
and  Maine  Railroad.  The  Bearcamp  House  was  burned  many  years 
ago,  and  never  rebuilt. 


112  WHITTIER-LAND 

But  he  swore  —  (if  ghosts  can  swear)  — 
"  No,  I  cannot  lift  the  hair 
Of  that  pale  face,  tall  and  fair, 
And  for  her  sake,  I  will  spare 

The  sleepers  on  Chocorua." 

Up  they  rose  at  blush  of  dawning, 
Off  they  marched  in  gray  of  morning, 
Following  where  the  brothers  Knox 
Went  like  wild  goats  up  the  rocks 
•         Of  vast  Chocorua. 

Where  the  mountain  shadow  bald  fell, 
Merry  faced  went  Addie  Caldwell ; 
And  Miss  Ford,  as  gay  of  manner, 
As  if  thrumming  her  piano, 

Sang  along  Chocorua. 

Light  of  foot,  of  kirtle  scant, 
Tripped  brave  Miss  Sturtevant ; 
While  as  free  as  Sherman's  bummer, 
In  the  rations  foraged  Plummer, 
On  thy  slope,  Chocorua  1 

Panting,  straining  up  the  rock  ridge, 
How  they  followed  Tip  and  Stockbridge, 
Till  at  last,  all  sore  with  bruises, 
Up  they  stood  like  the  nine  Muses, 
On  thy  crown,  Chocorua  1 

At  their  shout,  so  wild  and  rousing, 
Every  dun  deer  stopped  his  browsing, 
And  the  black  bear's  small  eyes  glistened, 
As  with  watery  mouth  he  listened 

To  the  climbers  on  Chocorua. 

All  the  heavens  were  close  above  them, 
But  below  were  friends  who  loved  them,  — 
And  at  thought  of  Bearcamp's  worry, 
Down  they  clambered  in  a  hurry,  — 
Scurry  down  Chocorua. 

Sore  we  miss  the  steaks  and  bear  roast  — 
But  withal  for  friends  we  care  most ;  — 


114  WHITTIER-LAND 

Give  the  brothers  Knox  three  cheers, 
Who  to  bring  us  back  our  dears, 

Left  bears  on  old  Chocorua ! 

The  next  day  after  the  husking,  Lucy  Larcom  and  some 
others  of  the  party  prepared  a  burlesque  literary  exercise 
for  the  evening  at  the  inn.  She  wrote  a  frolicsome  poem, 
and  others  devised  telegrams,  etc.,  all  of  which  were  to 
surprise  Whittier,  who  was  to  know  nothing  of  the  affair 
until  it  came  off.  When  the  evening  came,  the  venerable 
poet  took  his  usual  place  next  the  tongs,  and  the  rest  of 
the  party  formed  a  semicircle  around  the  great  fireplace. 
On  such  occasions  Whittier  always  insisted  on  taking 
charge  of  the  fire,  as  he  did  in  his  own  home.  He 
even  took  upon  himself  the  duty  of  filling  the  wood-box. 
No  one  in  his  presence  dared  to  touch  the  tongs.  By  and 
by  telegrams  began  to  be  brought  in  by  the  landlord  from 
ridiculous  people  in  ridiculous  situations.  Some  purported 
to  come  from  an  old  poet  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
caught  by  his  coat-tails  in  one  of  the  Knox  bear-traps  on 
Chocorua.  It  was  suggested  that  he  might  be  the  author 
of  the  poem  read  at  the  husking.  Lucy  Larcom,  who,  by 
the  way,  was  another  of  the  writers  popularly  supposed  to 
be  very  serious  minded,  but  who  really  was  known  among 
her  friends  as  full  of  fun,  read  a  poem  addressed  to  the 
man  in  the  bear-trap,  entitled :  — 

TO   THE   UNKNOWN   AND   ABSENT   AUTHOR   OF 
"HOW   THEY  CLIMBED   CHOCORUA" 

O  man  in  the  trap,  O  thou  poet-man  ! 

What  on  airth  are  you  doin'  ?  — 
We  haste  to  the  husking  as  fast  as  we  can, 

—  But  where 's  Mr.  Bruin  ? 

We  listen,  we  wait  for  his  sweet  howl  in  vain, 

Like  the  far  storm  resounding. 
Brothers  Knox  ne'er  will  see  Mr.  Bruin  again, 

Through  the  dim  moonlight  bounding. 


WHITTIER'S    SENSE    OF   HUMOR  115 

For,  thou  man  in  the  trap,  O  thou  poet-y-man, 

Scared  to  flight  by  thy  singing, 
Away  through  the  mountainous  forest  he  ran, 

Like  a  hurricane  winging. 

Aye,  the  bear  fled  away,  and  his  traps  left  behind, 

For  the  use  of  the  poet ; 
If  an  echo  unearthly  is  borne  on  the  wind  — 

'T  is  the  man's  — you  may  know  it 

By  its  tones  of  dismay,  melancholy  and  loss, 

O'er  his  coat-tails'  sad  ruin ; 
There 's  a  moan  in  the  pine,  and  a  howl  o'er  the  moss  — 

But  it 's  he —  't  is  n't  Bruin  ! 

And  the  fire  you  see  on  the  cliff  in  the  air 1 

Is  his  eye-balls  a-glarin' ! 
And  the  form  that  you  call  old  Chocorua  there 

Is  the  poet  up-rarin' ! 

And  whenever  the  trees  on  the  mountain-tops  thrill 
And  the  fierce  winds  they  blow  'em, 

In  most  awful  pause  every  bear  shall  stand  still  — 
He  's  writing  a  poem  ! 

Whittier  evidently  enjoyed  the  fun,  and  after  the  rest  had 
had  their  say,  he  remarked,  "  That  old  fellow  in  the  bear- 
trap  must  be  in  extremis.  He  ought  to  make  his  will. 
Suppose  we  help  him  out ! "  He  asked  one  of  us  to  get 
pencil  and  paper  and  jot  down  the  items  of  the  will,  each 
to  make  suggestions.  It  ended,  of  course,  in  his  making 
the  whole  will  himself,  and  doing  it  in  verse.  It  is  per- 
haps the  only  poem  of  his  which  he  never  wrote  with 
his  own  hand.  It  came  as  rapidly  as  the  scribe  could  take 
it.  Every  one  at  that  fireside  was  remembered  in  this 
queer  will  — even  the  "  boots  "  of  the  inn,  the  stage-driver, 
and  others  who  were  looking  upon  the  sport  from  the 
doorway. 
1  There  was  a  forest  fire  on  a  shoulder  of  Chocorua  at  this  time. 


Ii6  WHITTIER-LAND 

THE  LAST  WILL  AND  TESTAMENT  OF  THE  MAN 
IN  THE  BEAR-TRAP 

Here  I  am  at  last  a  goner, 
Held  in  hungry  jaws  like  Jonah  ; 

What  the  trap  has  left  of  me 

Eaten  by  the  bears  will  be. 
So  I  make,  on  duty  bent, 
My  last  will  and  testament, 

Giving  to  my  Bearcamp  friends 

All  my  traps  and  odds  and  ends. 
First,  on  Mr.  Whittier, 
That  old  bedstead  I  confer, 

Whereupon,  to  vex  his  life, 

Adam  dreamed  himself  a  wife. 
I  give  Miss  Ford  the  copyright 
Of  these  verses  I  indite, 

To  be  sung,  when  I  am  gone, 

To  the  tune  the  cow  died  on. 
On  Miss  Lansing  I  bestow 
Tall  Diana's  hunting  bow ; 

Where  it  is  I  cannot  tell  — 

But  if  found  't  will  suit  her  well. 
I  bequeath  to  Mary  Bailey 
Yarn  to  knit  a  stocking  daily.1 

To  Lizzie  Pickard  from  my  hat 

A  ribbon  for  her  yellow  cat. 
And  I  give  to  Mr.  Pickard 
That  old  tallow  dip  that  flickered, 

Flowed  and  sputtered  more  or  less 

Over  Franklin's  printing  press. 
I  give  Belle  Hume  a  wing 
Of  the  bird  that  would  n't  sing ;  '2 

To  Jettie  for  her  dancing  nights 

Slippers  dropped  from  Northern  Lights. 
And  I  give  my  very  best 
Beaver  stove-pipe  to  Celeste  — 

Solely  for  her  husband's  wear, 

On  the  day  they  're  made  a  pair. 
If  a  tear  for  me  is  shed, 
And  Miss  Larcom's  eyes  are  red  — 

1  She  was  knitting  at  the  time. 

2  She  had  refused  to  sing  that  evening. 


WHITTIER'S    SENSE    OF    HUMOR  117 

Give  her  for  her  prompt  relief 

My  last  pocket-handkerchief  I1 
My  cottage  at  the  Shoals  I  give 
To  all  who  at  the  Bearcamp  live  — 

Provided  that  a  steamer  plays 

Down  that  river  in  dog-days  — 
Linking  daily  heated  highlands 
With  the  cool  sea-scented  islands  — 

With  Tip  her  engineer,  her  skipper 

Peter  Hines,  the  old  stage-whipper.2 
To  Addie  C  aid  well,  who  has  mended 
My  torn  coat,  and  trousers  rended, 

I  bequeath,  in  lack  of  payment, 

All  that 's  left  me  of  my  raiment. 
Having  naught  beside  to  spare, 
To  my  good  friend,  Mrs.  Ayer, 

And  to  Mrs.  Sturtevant, 

My  last  lock  of  hair  I  grant. 
I  make  Mr.  Currier3 
Of  this  will  executor ; 

And  I  leave  the  debts  to  be 

Reckoned  as  his  legal  fee. 

This  is  all  of  the  will  that  was  written  that  evening ;  but 
the  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  1  found  under  my  plate  a 
note-sheet,  with  some  penciling  on  it.  As  I  opened  it,  Mr. 
Whittier,  with  a  quizzical  look,  said,  "Thee  will  notice 
that  the  bear-trap  man  has  added  a  codicil  to  his  will." 
This  is  the  codicil :  — 

And  this  pencil  of  a  sick  bard 
I  bequeath  to  Mr.  Pickard ; 

Pledging  him  to  write  a  very 

Long  and  full  obituary  — 
Showing  by  my  sad  example, 
Useful  life  and  virtues  ample, 

Wit  and  wisdom  only  tend 

To  bear-traps  at  one's  latter  end ! 

1  Lucy  Larcom  was  then  suffering  from  hay  fever. 

2  The  papers  had  an  item  to  the  effect  that  some  one  had  given 
Whittier  a  cottage  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 

3  The  only  lawyer  present. 


Il8  WHITTIER-LAND 

I  had  to  go  back  to  my  editorial  desk  in  Portland  that 
day,  and  immediately  received  there  this  note  from  Mr. 
Whittier :  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  P.,  —  Don't  print  in  thy  paper  my  foolish 
verses,  which  thee  copied.  They  are  hardly  consistent 
with  my  years  and  '  eminent  gravity,'  and  would  make 
'  the  heathen  rage,  and  the  people  imagine  vain  things.'  " 

I  had  no  thought  at  the  time  of  giving  to  the  public  this 
jolly  side  of  Whittier's  character,  but  do  it  now  with  little 
misgiving,  as  it  is  realized  by  every  one  that  "  a  little 
nonsense  now  and  then  is  relished  by  the  wisest  men." 
Whittier's  capacity  for  serious  work  is  well  known,  and 
his  love  of  play  never  interfered  with  it.  An  earnest  man 
without  a  sense  of  humor  is  a  machine  without  a  lubri- 
cant, worn  out  before  its  work  is  done.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  Whittier  owed  his  length  of  days  to  his  happy 
temperament. 

Here  is  a  story  of  Whittier  told  by  Alice  Freeman 
Palmer :  One  evening  they  sat  in  Governor  Claflin's 
library,  in  Boston,  and  he  was  taking  his  rest  telling 
ghost  stories.  Mrs.  Claflin  had  given  strict  orders  that 
no  visitor  be  allowed  to  intrude  on  Mr.  Whittier  when 
he  was  resting.  Suddenly,  at  the  crisis  of  a  particularly 
interesting  story,  there  was  a  commotion  in  the  hall,  and 
the  rest  of  that  story  was  not  told.  A  lady  had  called  to 
see  the  poet,  and  would  not  be  denied.  The  domestic 
could  not  stop  her,  and  she  came  straight  into  the  library. 
She  walked  up  to  Whittier  and  seized  both  his  hands, 
saying,  "  Mr.  Whittier,  this  is  the  supreme  moment  of 
my  life  !  "  The  poor  man  in  his  distress  blushed  like  a 
school-girl,  and  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other ;  he 
managed  to  get  his  hands  free,  and  put  them  behind  him 
for  further  security.  And  what  do  you  think  he  said  ? 
All  he  said  was,  "  Is  it  ?  "  Miss  Freeman  thought  a  third 
party  in  the  way,  and  slipped  out.  As  she  was  going  up- 
stairs, she  heard  a  quick  step  behind  her,  and  Whittier 
took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  her,  saying  as  if  an- 


WHITTIER'S    SENSE   OF    HUMOR  119 

gry,  "  Alice  Freeman,  I  believe  thee  has  been  laughing 
at  me  !  "  She  could  not  deny  it.  "  What  would  thee  do, 
Alice  Freeman,  if  a  man  thee  never  saw  should  come  up 
in  that  way  to  thee,  take  both  hands,  and  tell  thee  it  was 
the  supreme  moment  of  his  life  ?  " 

Probably  the  most  seriously  dangerous  position  in 
which  he  was  ever  placed  was  on  the  occasion  of  the  loot- 
ing and  burning  of  Pennsylvania  Hall,  in  the  spring  of 
1838.  His  editorial  office  was  in  the  building,  and  for 
two  or  three  days  the  mob  had  been  threatening  its  de- 
struction before  they  accomplished  it.  It  was  not  safe  for 
him  to  go  into  the  street  except  in  disguise.  And  yet  it 
was  at  this  very  time  that  he  wrote  the  following  humor- 
ous skit,  never  before  in  print.  Theodore  D.  Weld  had 
the  year  before  made  a  contract  of  perpetual  bachelor- 
hood with  Whittier,  and  yet  he  chose  this  troublous  time 
to  marry  the  eloquent  South  Carolina  Quakeress,  Ange- 
lina Grimke,  who  had  freed  her  slaves  and  come  North 
to  rouse  the  people,  and  was  creating  a  sensation  on  the 
lecture  platform.  Her  burning  words  in  Pennsylvania 
Hall  had  helped  to  make  the  mob  furious.  Whittier's 
humorous  arraignment  of  his  friend  for  breaking  his  pro- 
mise of  celibacy  was  written  at  this  critical  time,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  disguise  himself  when  he  carried  his 
epithalamium  on  the  wedding  night  to  the  door  of  the 
bridegroom.  He  had  been  invited  to  assist  at  the  wed- 
ding service,  but  as  the  bride  was  marrying  "  out  of  soci- 
ety," Whittier's  orthodoxy  compelled  him  to  decline  the 
invitation. 

"  Alack  and  alas !  that  a  brother  of  mine, 

A  bachelor  sworn  on  celibacy's  altar, 
Should  leave  me  to  watch  by  the  desolate  shrine, 

And  stoop  his  own  neck  to  the  enemy's  halter ! 
Oh  the  treason  of  Benedict  Arnold  was  better 

Than  the  scoffing  at  Love,  and  then  sub  rosa  wooing  ; 
This  mocking  at  Beauty,  yet  wearing  her  fetter  — 

Alack  and  alas  for  such  bachelor  doing ! 


120  WHITTIER-LAND 

"  Oh  the  weapons  of  Saul  are  the  Philistine's  prey ! 

Who  shall  stand  when  the  heart  of  the  champion  fails  him  ; 
Who  strive  when  the  mighty  his  shield  casts  away, 

And  yields  up  his  post  when  a  woman  assails  him  ? 
Alone  and  despairing  thy  brother  rernains 

At  the  desolate  shrine  where  we  stood  up  together, 
Half  tempted  to  envy  thy  self-imposed  chains, 

And  stoop  his  own  neck  for  the  noose  of  the  tether! 

"  So  firm  and  yet  false  !     Thou  mind'st  me  in  sooth 
Of  St.  Anthony's  fall  when  the  spirit  of  evil1 

Filled  the  cell  of  his  rest  with  imp,  dragon  and  devil ; 
But  the  Saint  never  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  Book 

Till  the  tempter  appeared  in  the  guise  of  a  woman; 
And  her  voice  was  so  sweet  that  he  ventured  one  look, 

And  the  devil  rejoiced  that  the  Saint  had  proved  human  !  " 

In  1874,  Gail  Hamilton's  niece  was  married  at  her 
house  in  Hamilton,  and  she  sent  a  grotesque  invitation 
to  Whittier,  asking  him  to  come  to  her  wedding,  and  pre- 
scribing a  ridiculous  costume  he  might  wear.  As  a  post- 
script she  mentioned  that  it  was  her  niece  who  was  to  be 
married.  Whittier  sent  this  reply,  pretending  not  to  have 
noticed  the  postscript,  but  finally  waking  up  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  not  herself  to  be  the  bride  :  — 

AMESBURY,  iath  mo.  2gth,  1874. 
GAIL  HAMILTON'S    WEDDING 

"  Come  to  my  wedding,"  the  missive  runs, 

"  Come  hither  and  list  to  the  holy  vows  ; 
If  you  miss  this  chance  you  will  wait  full  long 
To  see  another  at  Gail-a  House !  " 

Her  wedding  !     What  can  the  woman  expect  ? 
Does  she  think  her  friends  can  be  jolly  and  glad? 

1  A  line  is  here  missing.  I  had  the  copy  of  this  poem  from  Mr. 
Weld  himself  when  he  was  ninety  years  of  age.  He  had  accidentally 
omitted  it  in  copying  for  me,  and  his  death  occurred  before  the 
omission  was  noticed. 


WHITTIER'S    SENSE   OF   HUMOR  i: 

Is  it  only  the  child  who  sighs  and  grieves 
For  the  loss  of  something  he  never  had  ? 

Yet  I  say  to  myself,  Is  it  strange  that  she 
Should  choose  the  way  that  we  know  is  good 

What  right  have  we  to  grumble  and  whine 
In  a  pitiful  dog-in-the-manger  mood  ? 

What  boots  it  to  maunder  with  "  if  "  and  "  perhaps," 
And  "  it  might  have  been  "  when  we  know  it  could  n't, 

If  she  had  been  willing  (a  vain  surmise), 
It 's  ten  to  one  that  Barkis  wrould  n't. 

'T  was  pleasant  to  think  (if  it  was  a  dream) 
That  our  loving  homage  her  need  supplied, 

Humbler  and  sadder,  if  wiser,  we  walk 
To  feel  her  life  from  our  own  lives  glide. 

Let  her  go,  God  bless  her !     I  fling  for  luck 
My  old  shoe  after  her.     Stay,  what 's  this  ? 

Is  it  all  a  mistake  ?     The  letter  reads, 

"  My  niece,  you  must  know,  is  the  happy  miss." 

All 's  right  1     To  grind  out  a  song  of  cheer 

I  set  to  the  crank  my  ancient  muse. 
Will  somebody  kiss  that  bride  for  me  ? 

I  fling  with  my  blessing,  both  boots  and  shoes  ! 

To  the  lucky  bridegroom  I  cry  all  hail ! 

He  is  sure  of  having,  let  come  what  may, 
The  sage  advice  of  the  wisest  aunt 

That  ever  her  fair  charge  gave  away. 

The  Hamilton  bell,  if  bell  there  be, 

Methinks  is  ringing  its  merriest  peal ; 
And,  shades  of  John  Calvin !  I  seem  to  see 

The  hostess  treading  the  wedding  reel ! 

The  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

My  dreams  are  over,  my  songs  are  sung, 
But,  out  of  a  heart  that  has  not  grown  cold, 

I  bid  God-speed  to  the  fair  and  young. 


122  WHITTIER-LAND 

All  joy  go  with  them  from  year  to  year; 

Never  by  me  shall  their  pledge  be  blamed 
Of  the  perfect  love  that  has  cast  out  fear, 

And  the  beautiful  hope  that  is  not  ashamed  ! 

An  aged  Quaker  friend  from  England,  himself  a  bache- 
lor, was  once  visiting  Mr.  Whittier,  and  was  shown  to  his 
room  by  the  poet,  when  the  hour  for  retiring  came. 
Soon  after,  he  was  heard  calling  to  his  host  in  an  excited 
tone,  "  Thee  has  made  a  mistake,  friend  Whittier  ;  there 
are  female  garments  in  my  room  !  "  Whittier  replied 
soothingly,  "  Thee  had  better  go  to  bed,  Josiah;  the 
female  garments  won't  hurt  thee." 

Here  is  a  specimen  of  his  frolicsome  verse  written  after 
he  was  eighty  years  of  age.  It  deals  largely  in  personali- 
ties, was  meant  solely  for  the  perusal  of  a  few  friends  whom 
it  pleasantly  satirized,  and  was  never  before  in  print.  When 
the  bronze  statue  of  Josiah  Bartlett  was  to  be  erected  in 
Amesbury,  Whittier  of  course  was  called  upon  for  the 
dedicatory  ode,  and  he  wrote  "  One  of  the  Signers  "  for 
the  occasion.  The  unveiling  of  the  statue  occurred  on 
the  Fourth  of  July,  1888,  and  as  might  have  been  antici- 
pated, the  poet  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  be  present. 
The  day  before  the  Fourth  he  went  to  Oak  Knoll,  "  so  as 
to  keep  in  the  quiet,"  he  said.  But  his  thoughts  were  on 
the  celebration  going  on  at  Amesbury,  and  they  took  the 
form  of  drollery.  He  imagined  himself  occupying  the  seat 
on  the  platform  which  had  been  reserved  for  him,  and 
these  amusing  verses  were  composed,  the  satirical  allu- 
sions in  which  would  be  appreciated  by  his  townspeople. 
The  president  of  the  day  was  Hon.  E.  Moody  Boynton,  a 
descendant  of  the  signer,  and  the  well-known  inventor  of 
the  bicycle  railway,  the  "  lightning  saw,"  etc.  He  has  the 
reputation  of  having  the  limberest  tongue  in  New  Eng- 
land, as  well  as  a  brain  most  fertile  in  invention.  The 
orator  of  the  day  was  Hon.  Robert  T.  Davis,  then  mem- 
ber of  Congress,  a  former  resident  of  Amesbury,  and  like 
Bartlett  a  physician.  Jacob  R.  Huntington,  to  whose  lib- 


WHITTIER'S    SENSE    OF    HUMOR 


123 


erality  the  village  is  indebted  for  the  statue,  is  a  success- 
ful pioneer  in  the  carriage-building  industry  of  the  place. 
It  was  cannily  decided  to  give  the  statue  to  the  State  of 


JOSIAH   BARTLETT  STATUE,  HUNTINGTON   SQUARE, 
AMESBURY 

Massachusetts,  so  as  to  have  an  inducement  for  the  Gov- 
ernor to  attend  the  dedication.  Whittier's  play  on  this  fact 
is  in  the  best  vein  of  his  drollery.  The  statue  is  of  dark 
bronze,  and  this  gave  a  chance  for  his  amusing  reference 


124  WHITTIER-LAND 

to  the  Kingston  Democrats,  whom  he  imagined  as  coming 
across  the  state  line  to  attend  the  celebration.  Dr.  Bart- 
lett  was  buried  in  their  town.  Professor  J.  W.  Churchill, 
of  Andover,  one  of  the  "  heretics  "  of  the  Seminary,  was 
to  read  the  poem.  The  other  persons  named  were  eccen- 
tric characters  well  known  in  Amesbury  :  — 

MY   DOUBLE 

I  'm  in  Amesbury,  not  at  Oak  Knoll ; 

'T  is  my  double  here  you  see : 
f'm  sitting  on  the  platform, 

Where  the  programme  places  me  — 

Where  the  women  nudge  each  other, 

And  point  me  out  and  say  : 
"  That 's  the  man  who  makes  the  verses  — 
My  1  how  old  he  is  and  gray !  " 

I  hear  the  crackers  popping, 

I  hear  the  bass  drums  throb ; 
I  sit  at  Boynton's  right  hand, 

And  help  him  boss  the  job. 

And  like  the  great  stone  giant 

Dug  out  of  Cardiff  mire, 
We  lift  our  man  of  metal, 

And  resurrect  Josiah ! 

Around,  the  Hampshire  Democrats 
Stand  looking  glum  and  grim,  — 
"  That  thing  the  Kingston  doctor  ! 
Do  you  call  that  critter  him  ? 

"  The  pesky  Black  Republicans 

Have  gone  and  changed  his  figure  ; 
We  buried  him  a  white  man  — 
They  Ve  dug  him  up  a  nigger !  " 

I  hear  the  wild  winds  rushing 

From  Boynton's  limber  jaws, 
Swift  as  his  railroad  bicycle, 

And  buzzing  like  his  saws  I 


WHITTIER'S   SENSE   OF   HUMOR  125 

But  Hiram  the  wise  is  explaining 

It 's  only  an  old  oration 
Of  Ginger-Pop  Emmons,  come  down 

By  way  of  undulation  ! 

Then  Jacob,  the  vehicle-maker, 

Comes  forward  to  inquire 
If  Governor  Ames  will  relieve  the  town 

Of  the  care  of  old  Josiah. 

And  the  Governor  says :  "  If  Amesbury  can't 

Take  care  of  its  own  town  charge, 
The  State,  I  suppose,  must  do  it, 

And  keep  him  from  runnin'  at  large  !  " 

Then  rises  the  orator  Robert, 

Recounting  with  grave  precision 
The  tale  of  the  great  Declaration, 

And  the  claims  of  his  brother  physician. 

Both  doctors,  and  both  Congressmen, 

Tall  and  straight,  you  'd  scarce  know  which  is 

The  live  man,  and  which  is  the  image, 
Except  by  their  trousers  and  breeches  ! 

Then  when  the  Andover  "  heretic  " 

Reads  the  rhymes  I  dared  not  utter, 
I  fancy  Josiah  is  scowling, 

And  his  bronze  lips  seem  to  mutter  : 

"  Dry  up  !  and  stop  your  nonsense  ! 

The  Lord  who  m  His  mercies 
Once  saved  me  from  the  Tories, 
Preserve  me  now  from  verses  ! " 

Bad  taste  in  the  old  Continental ! 

Whose  knowledge  of  verse  was  at  best 
John  Rogers'  farewell  to  his  wife  and 

Nine  children  and  one  at  the  breast ! 

He  's  treating  me  worse  than  the  Hessians 
He  shot  in  the  Bennington  scrimmage  — 

Have  I  outlived  the  newspaper  critic. 
To  be  scalped  by  a  graven  image  ! 


126  WHITTIER-LAND 

Perhaps,  after  all,  I  deserve  it, 

Since  I,  who  was  born  a  Quaker, 
Sit  here  an  image  worshiper, 

Instead  of  an  image  breaker ! 

In  giving  this  picture  of  a  poet  at  play,  I  have  presented 
a  side  of  Whittier's  character  heretofore  overlooked,  al- 
though to  his  intimate  friends  it  was  ever  in  evidence.  I 
think  there  are  few  of  the  lovers  of  his  verse  who,  if  they 
are  surprised  by  these  revelations,  will  not  also  be  pleased 
to  become  acquainted  with  one  of  his  methods  of  recrea- 
tion. 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED 
POEMS 


IV 

WHITTIER'S  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 

BETWEEN  the  years  1826  and  1835,  Mr.  Whittier  was 
writing  literally  hundreds  of  poems  which  he  never  per- 
mitted to  be  collected  in  any  edition  of  his  works ;  and 
not  only  so,  but  he  preserved  no  copies  of  them,  in  later 
years  destroying  such  as  came  to  his  notice.  Some  of 
these  verses  went  the  rounds  of  the  newspaper  press  of 
the  country,  giving  him  a  widespread  reputation  as  a  poet. 
But  in  much  of-  his  early  work  we  see  traces  of  ambition 
for  fame,  and  a  feeling  that  the  world  was  treating  him 
harshly.  When  the  change  came  over  his  spirit  to  which 
reference  has  been  made  in  a  preceding  chapter,  sweet- 
ening all  the  springs  of  life,  he  lost  interest  in  these  early 
productions,  some  of  which  were  giving  him  the  fame 
that  in  his  earlier  years  he  so  much  craved.  It  was  this 
radical  change  which  no  doubt  influenced  him  in  his 
later  life  to  omit  from  his  collected  works  most  of  the 
verses  written  previous  to  it.  I  have  in  my  possession 
more  than  three  hundred  poems  which  I  have  found  in 
the  files  of  old  newspapers,  the  great  mass  of  which  I 
would  by  no  means  reproduce,  although  I  find  nothing  of 
which  a  young  writer  of  that  period  need  be  ashamed.  A 
few  of  these  verses  are  given  below  as  specimens  of  the 
work  he  saw  fit  to  discard. 

The  following  poem,  written  when  he  was  nineteen 
years  of  age,  during  his  first  term  in  the  Haverhill  Acad- 
emy, shows  in  one  or  two  stanzas  the  feeling  that  the 
world  is  giving  him  the  cold  shoulder  :  — 


130  WHITTIER-LAND 

I  WOULD  NOT  LOSE  THAT  ROMANCE  WILD 

I  would  not  lose  that  romance  wild, 

That  high  and  gifted  feeling  — 
The  power  that  made  me  fancy's  child, 

The  clime  of  song  revealing, 
For  all  the  power,  for  all  the  gold, 
That  slaves  to  pride  and  avarice  hold. 

I  know  that  there  are  those  who  deem 

But  lightly  of  the  lyre ;  — 
Who  ne'er  have  felt  one  blissful  beam 

Of  song-enkindled  fire 
Steal  o'er  their  spirits,  as  the  light 
Of  morning  o'er  the  face  of  night. 

Yet  there 's  a  mystery  in  song  — 

A  halo  round  the  way 
Of  him  who  seeks  the  muses'  throng  — 

An  intellectual  ray, 
A  source  of  pure,  unfading  joy  — 
A  dream  that  earth  can  ne'er  destroy. 

And  though  the  critic's  scornful  eye 

Condemn  his  faltering  lay, 
And  though  with  heartless  apathy, 

The  cold  world  turn  away  — 
And  envy  strive  with  secret  aim, 
To  blast  and  dim  his  rising  fame ; 

Yet  fresh,  amid  the  blast  that  brings 

Such  poison  on  its  breath, 
Above  the  wreck  of  meaner  things, 

His  lyre's  unfading  wreath 
Shall  bloom,  when  those  who  scorned  his  lay, 
With  name  and  power  have  passed  away. 

Come  then,  my  lyre,  although  there  be 

No  witchery  in  thy  tone  ; 
And  though  the  lofty  harmony 

Which  other  bards  have  known, 
Is  not,  and  cannot  e'er  be  mine, 
To  touch  with  power  those  chords  of  thine. 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS         131 

Yet  thou  canst  tell,  in  humble  strain, 

The  feelings  of  a  heart, 
Which,  though  not  proud,  would  still  disdain 

To  bear  a  meaner  part, 
Than  that  of  bending  at  the  shrine 
Where  their  bright  wreaths  the  muses  twine. 

Thou  canst  not  give  me  wealth  or  fame ; 

Thou  hast  no  power  to  shed 
The  halo  of  a  deathless  name 

Around  my  last  cold  bed ; 
To  other  chords  than  thine  belong 
The  breathings  of  immortal  song. 

Yet  come,  my  lyre !  some  hearts  may  beat 

Responsive  to  thy  lay ;  , 

The  tide  of  sympathy  may  meet 

Thy  master's  lonely  way ; 
And  kindred  souls  from  envy  free 
May  listen  to  its  minstrelsy. 
8th  month,  1827. 

During  the  first  months  of  Whittier's  editorship  of  the 
"  New  England  Review"  at  Hartford,  his  contributions  of 
verse  to  that  paper  were  numerous  —  in  some  cases  three 
of  his  poems  appearing  in  a  single  number,  as  in  the 
issue  of  October  18,  1830.  Two  of  these  are  signed  with 
his  initials,  but  the  one  here  given  has  no  signature. 
That  it  is  his  is  made  evident  by  the  fact  that  all  but  one 
stanza  of  it  appears  in  "  Moll  Pitcher,"  published  two 
years  later.  It  was  probably  because  of  the  self-assertion 
of  the  concluding  lines  that  the  omitted  stanza  was  can- 
celed, and  these  lines  reveal  the  ambition  then  stirring 
his  young  blood. 

NEW  ENGLAND 

Land  of  the  forest  and  the  rock  — 

Of  dark  blue  lake  and  mighty  river  — 
Of  mountains  reared  aloft  to  mock 
The  storm's  career  —  the  lightning's  shock, — 
My  own  green  land  forever !  — 


132  WHITTIER-LAND 

Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave  — 

The  freeman's  home  —  the  martyr's  grave  — 

The  nursery  of  giant  men, 

Whose  deeds  have  linked  with  every  glen, 

And  every  hill  and  every  stream, 

The  romance  of  some  warrior  dream  !  — 

Oh  never  may  a  son  of  thine, 

Where'er  his  wandering  steps  incline, 

Forget  the  sky  which  bent  above 

His  childhood  like  a  dream  of  love  — 

The  stream  beneath  the  green  hill  flowing  — 

The  broad-armed  trees  above  it  growing  — 

The  clear  breeze  through  the  foliage  blowing  ; 

Or  hear  unmoved  the  taunt  of  scorn 

Breathed  o'er  the  brave  New  England  born ;  - 

Or  mark  ttie  stranger's  Jaguar  hand 

Disturb  the  ashes  of  thy  dead  — 
The  buried  glory  of  a  land 

Whose  soil  with  noble  blood  is  red, 
And  sanctified  in  every  part, 
Nor  feel  resentment  like  a  brand 
Unsheathing  from  his  fiery  heart ! 

Oh  —  greener  hills  may  catch  the  sun 

Beneath  the  glorious  heaven  of  France  ; 
And  streams  rejoicing  as  they  run 

Like  life  beneath  the  day -beam's  glance, 
May  wander  where  the  orange  bough 
With  golden  fruit  is  bending  low  ;  — 
And  there  may  bend  a  brighter  sky 
O'er  green  and  classic  Italy  — 
And  pillared  fane  and  ancient  grave 

Bear  record  of  another  time, 
And  over  shaft  and  architrave 

The  green  luxuriant  ivy  climb ;  — 
And  far  towards  the  rising  sun 

The  palm  may  shake  its  leaves  on  high, 
Where  flowers  are  opening  one  by  one, 

Like  stars  upon  the  twilight  sky, 
And  breezes  soft  as  sighs  of  love 

Above  the  rich  mimosa  stray, 
And  through  the  Brahmin's  sacred  grove 

A  thousand  bright-hued  pinions  play  !  — 


WHITTIER'S   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS         133 

Yet,  unto  thee,  New  England,  still 

Thy  wandering  sons  shall  stretch  their  arms, 
And  thy  rude  chart  of  rock  and  hill 

Seem  dearer  than  the  land  of  palms  I 
Thy  massy  oak  and  mountain  pine 

More  welcome  than  the  banyan's  shade, 
And  every  free,  blue  stream  of  thine 

Seem  richer  than  the  golden  bed 
Of  Oriental  waves,  which  glow 
And  sparkle  with  the  wealth  below  I 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  —  if  my  name, 
Now  humble,  and  unwed  to  fame, 
Hereafter  burn  upon  the  lip, 

As  one  of  those  which  may  not  die, 
Linked  in  eternal  fellowship 

With  visions  pure  and  strong  and  high  — 
If  the  wild  dreams  which  quicken  now 
The  throbbing  pulse  of  heart  and  brow, 
Hereafter  take  a  real  form 
Like  spectres  changed  to  beings  warm  ; 
And  over  temples  worn  and  gray 

The  star-like  crown  of  glory  shine, — 
Thine  be  the  bard's  undying  lay, 

The  murmur  of  his  praise  be  thine! 

One  of  the  poems  in  the  same  number  which  contained 
this  spirited  tribute  to  New  England  was  the  song  given 
below,  which  was  signed  with  the  initials  of  the  editor, 
else  there  might  be  some  hesitation  in  assigning  it  to  him, 
for  there  is  scarcely  anything  like  it  to  be  found  in  his 
writings.  It  was  evidently  written  for  music,  and  some 
composer  should  undertake  it. 

SONG 

That  vow  of  thine  was  full  and  deep 

As  man  has  ever  spoken  — 
A  vow  within  the  heart  to  keep, 

Unchangeable,  unbroken. 

'T  was  by  the  glory  of  the  Sun, 
And  by  the  light  of  Even, 


134  WHITTIER-LAND 

And  by  the  Stars,  that,  one  by  one, 
Are  lighted  up  in  Heaven  ! 

That  Even  might  forget  its  gold  — 

And  Sunlight  fade  forever  — 
The  constant  Stars  grow  dim  and  cold,  — 

But  thy  affection  —  never  ! 

And  Earth  might  wear  a  changeful  sign, 

And  fickleness  the  Sky  — 
Yet,  even  then,  that  love  of  thine 

Might  never  change  nor  die. 

The  golden  Sun  is  shining  yet  — 

And  at  the  fall  of  Even 
There  's  beauty  in  the  warm  Sunset, 

And  Stars  are  bright  in  Heaven. 

No  change  is  on  the  blessed  Sky  — 

The  quiet  Earth  has  none  — 
Nature  has  still  her  constancy, 

And  Thou  art  changed  alone  ! 

The  "Review"  for  September  13,  1830,  has  a  poem 
of  Whittier's  prefaced  by  a  curious  story  about  Lord 
Byron :  — 

The  Spectre.  —  There  is  a  story  going  the  rounds  of  our 
periodicals  that  a  Miss  G.,  of  respectable  family,  young 
and  very  beautiful,  attended  Lord  Byron  for  nearly  a  year 
in  the  habit  of  a  page.  Love,  desperate  and  all-engrossing, 
seems  to  have  been  the  cause  of  her  singular  conduct. 
Neglected  at  last  by  the  man  for  whom  she  had  forsaken 
all  that  woman  holds  dear,  she  resolved  upon  self-de- 
struction, and  provided  herself  with  poison.  Her  designs 
were  discovered  by  Lord  Byron,  who  changed  the  poison 
for  a  sleeping  potion.  Miss  G.,  with  that  delicate  feeling 
of  affection  which  had  ever  distinguished  her  intercourse 
with  Byron,  stole  privately  away  to  the  funeral  vault  of 
the  Byrons,  and  fastened  the  entrance,  resolving  to  spare 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED   POEMS        135 

her  lover  the  dreadful  knowledge  of  her  fate.  She  there 
swallowed  the  supposed  poison  —  and  probably  died  of 
starvation  !  She  was  found  dead  soon  after.  Lord  Byron 
never  adverted  to  this  subject  without  a  thrill  of  horror. 
The  following  from  his  private  journal  may,  perhaps,  have 
some  connection  with  it :  — 

"  I  awoke  from  a  dream  —  well  !  and  have  not  others 
dreamed  ?  —  such  a  dream  !  I  wish  the  dead  would  rest 
forever.  Ugh  !  how  my  blood  chilled  —  and  I  could  not 
wake  —  and  —  and  — 

"  Shadows  to-night 

Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard 
Than  could  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  — 
Armed  all  in  proof  — 

"I  do  not  like  this  dream  —  I  hate  its  foregone  conclu- 
sion. And  am  I  to  be  shaken  by  shadows  ?  Ay,  when 
they  remind  us  of  —  no  matter  —  but  if  I  dream  again  I 
will  try  whether  all  sleep  has  the  like  visions."  —  Moore's 
"  Byron,"  page  324. 

She  came  to  me  last  night  — 
The  floor  gave  back  no  tread, 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moonlight  — 
In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead  — 
Pale  —  pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me  — 
I  heard  no  sound  —  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me  from  that  face  of  death ; 
Its  dark  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Rayl ess  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone ; 
Yet  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something  which  told  of  other  days  — 
A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  Love's  smile  were  frozen  there, 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill  — 
O  Clod  !  I  feel  its  presence  still  ! 
And  fearfully  and  dimly 
The  pale  cold  vision  passed, 
Vet  those  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  me 
In  sadness  to  the  last. 


136  WHITTIER-LAND 

I  struggled  —  and  my  breath  came  back, 
As  to  the  victim  on  the  rack, 
Amid  the  pause  of  mortal  pain 
Life  steals  to  suffer  once  again  ! 
Was  it  a  dream  ?    I  looked  around, 
The  moonlight  through  the  lattice  shone ; 
The  same  pale  glow  that  dimly  crowned 
The  forehead  of  the  spectral  one  ! 
And  then  I  knew  she  had  been  there  — 
Not  in  her  breathing  loveliness, 
But  as  the  grave's  lone  sleepers  are, 
Silent  and  cold  and  passionless  ! 
A  weary  thought  —  a  fearful  thought  — 
Within  the  secret  heart  to  keep : 
Would  that  the  past  might  be  forgot  — 
Would  that  the  dead  might  sleep  ! 

These  are  the  concluding  lines  of  a  long  poem  written  in 
1829,  while  he  was  editing  the  "American  Manufacturer." 
The  poem  as  a  whole  was  never  in  print ;  but  these  lines  of 
it  I  find  in  the  "  Essex  Gazette  "  of  August  22,  1829,  from 
which  paper  they  were  copied,  as  were  most  of  his  produc- 
tions of  that  period,  by  the  newspapers  of  the  country. 
They  were  never  in  any  collection  of  his  works  :  — 

A  FRAGMENT 

Lady,  farewell  !    I  know  thy  heart 

Has  angel  strength  to  soar  above 

The  cold  reserve — the  studied  art 

That  mock  the  glowing  wings  of  love. 

Its  thoughts  are  purer  than  the  pearl 

That  slumbers  where  the  wave  is  driven, 

Yet  freer  than  the  winds  that  furl 

The  banners  of  the  clouded  heaven. 

And  thou  hast  been  the  brightest  star 

That  shone  along  my  weary  way  — 

Brighter  than  rainbow  visions  are, 

A  changeless  and  enduring  ray. 

Nor  will  my  memory  lightly  fade 

From  thy  pure  dreams,  high-thoughted  girl ;  — 

The  ocean  may  forget  what  made 

Its  blue  expanse  of  waters  curl, 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS        137 

When  the  strong  winds  have  passed  the  sky ; 

Earth  in  its  beauty  may  forget 

The  recent  cloud  that  floated  by ; 

The  glories  of  the  last  sunset  — 

But  not  from  thy  unchanging  mind 

Will  fade  the  dreams  of  other  years, 

And  love  will  linger  far  behind, 

In  memory's  resting  place  of  tears  I 

Many  of  Whittier's  early  discarded  verses  are  of  a 
rather  gruesome  sort,  but  more  are  inspired  by  contempla- 
tion of  sublime  themes,  like  this  apostrophe  to  "  Eternity," 
which  was  published  in  the  "  New  England  Review  "  in 
1831  :  — 

ETERNITY 

Boundless  eternity !  the  winged  sands 

That  mark  the  silent  lapse  of  flitting  time 
Are  not  for  thee ;  thine  awful  empire  stands 

From  age  to  age,  unchangeable,  sublime ; 

Thy  domes  are  spread  where  thought  can  never  climb, 
In  clouds  and  darkness  where  vast  pillars  rest. 

I  may  not  fathom  thee :  't  would  seem  a  crime 
Thy  being  of  its  mystery  to  divest 
Or  boldly  lift  thine  awful  veil  with  hands  unblest. 

Thy  ruins  are  the  wrecks  of  systems  ;  suns 

Blaze  a  brief  space  of  age,  and  are  not ; 
Worlds  crumble  and  decay,  creation  runs 

To  waste  —  then  perishes  and  is  forgot ; 

Yet  thou,  all  changeless,  heedest  not  the  blot. 
Heaven  speaks  once  more  in  thunder  ;  empty  space 

Trembles  and  wakes ;  new  worlds  in  ether  float, 
Teeming  with  new  creative  life,  and  trace 
Their  mighty  circles,  which  others  shall  displace. 

Thine  age  is  youth,  thy  youth  is  hoary  age, 

Ever  beginning,  never  ending,  thou 
Bearest  inscribed  upon  thy  ample  page, 

Yesterday,  forever,  but  as  now 

Thou  art,  thou  hast  been,  shall  be  :  though 
I  feel  myself  immortal,  when  on  thee 

I  muse,  I  shrink  to  nothingness,  and  bow 


138  WHITTIER-LAND 

Myself  before  thee,  dread  Eternity, 
With  God  coeval,  coexisting,  still  to  be. 

I  go  with  thee  till  time  shall  be  no  more, 

I  stand  with  thee  on  Time's  remotest  age, 
Ten  thousand  years,  ten  thousand  times  told  o'er ; 

Still,  still  with  thee  my  onward  course  I  urge ; 

And  now  no  longer  hear  the  surge 
Of  Time's  light  billows  breaking  on  the  shore 

Of  distant  earth ;  no  more  the  solemn  dirge  — 
Requiem  of  worlds,  when  such  are  numbered  o'er  — 
Steals  by :  still  thou  art  on  forever  more. 

From  that  dim  distance  I  turn  to  gaze 

With  fondly  searching  glance,  upon  the  spot 

Of  brief  existence,  when  I  met  the  blaze 
Of  morning,  bursting  on  my  humble  cot, 
And  gladness  whispered  of  my  happy  lot ; 

And  now  't  is  dwindled  to  a  point  —  a  speck  — 
And  now  't  is  nothing,  and  my  eye  may  not 

Longer  distinguish  it  amid  the  wreck 

Of  worlds  in  ruins,  crushed  at  the  Almighty's  beck. 

Time  —  what  is  time  to  thee  ?  a  passing  thought 
To  twice  ten  thousand  ages  —  a  faint  spark  . 

To  twice  ten  thousand  suns  ;  a  fibre  wrought 
Into  the  web  of  infinite  —  a  cork 
Balanced  against  a  world  :  we  hardly  mark 

Its  being — even  its  name  hath  ceased  to  be; 
Thy  wave  hath  swept  it  from  us,  thy  dark 

Mantle  of  years,  in  dim  obscurity 

Hath  shrouded  it  around  :  Time  —  what  is  Time  to  thee  ! 


In  1832  a  living  ichneumon  was  brought  to  Haverhill, 
and  was  on  exhibition  at  Frinksborough,  a  section  of 
Haverhill  now  known  as  "the  borough,"  on  the  bank  of 
the  river  above  the  railroad  bridge.  Three  young  ladies 
of  Haverhill  went  to  see  it,  escorted  by  Mr.  Whittier. 
They  found  that  the  animal  had  succumbed  to  the  New 
England  climate,  and  had  just  been  buried.  One  of  the 
ladies,  Harriet  Minot,  afterward  Mrs.  Pitman,  a  life-long 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED   POEMS        139 

friend  of  the  poet,   suggested  that  he   should  write  an 
elegy,  and  these  are  the  lines  he  produced  :  — 


THE   DEAD   ICHNEUMON 

Stranger  !  they  have  made  thy  grave 

By  the  darkly  flowing  river ; 
But  the  washing  of  its  wave 
Shall  disturb  thee  never  ! 
Nor  its  autumn  tides  which  run 

Turbid  to  the  rising  sun, 
Nor  the  harsh  and  hollow  thunder, 
When  its  fetters  burst  asunder, 
And  its  winter  ice  is  sweeping, 
Downward  to  the  ocean's  keeping. 

Sleeper  !  thou  canst  rest  as  calm 

As  beside  thine  own  dark  stream, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  palm, 
Or  the  white  sand  gleam ! 
Though  thy  grave  be  never  hid 
By  the  o'ershadowing  pyramid, 
Frowning  o'er  the  desert  sand, 
Like  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Telling  aye  the  same  proud  story 
Of  the  old  Egyptian  glory  ! 

Wand'rer  !  would  that  we  might  know 

Something  of  thy  early  time  — 
Something  of  thy  weal  or  woe 

In  thine  own  far  clime ! 
If  thy  step  hath  fallen  where 
Those  of  Cleopatra  were, 
When  the  Roman  cast  his  crown 
At  a  woman's  footstool  down, 
Deeming  glory's  sunshine  dim 
To  the  smile  which  welcomed  him. 

If  beside  the  reedy  Nile 

Thou  hast  ever  held  thy  way, 

Where  the  embryo  crocodile 
In  the  damp  sedge  lay ; 


HO  WHITTIER-LAND 

When  the  river  monster's  eye 
Kindled  at  thy  passing  by, 
And  the  pliant  reeds  were  bending 
Where  his  blackened  form  was  wending, 
And  the  basking  serpent  started 
Wildly  when  thy  light  form  darted. 

Thou  hast  seen  the  desert  steed 

Mounted  by  his  Arab  chief, 
Passing  like  some  dream  of  speed, 

Wonderful  and  brief ! 
Where  the  palm-tree's  shadows  lurk, 
Thou  hast  seen  the  turbaned  Turk, 
Resting  in  voluptuous  pride 
With  his  harem  at  his  side, 
Veiled  victims  of  his  will, 
Scorned  and  lost,  yet  lovely  still. 

And  the  samiel  hath  gone 

O'er  thee  like  a  demon's  breath, 
Marking  victims  one  by  one 

For  its  master — Death. 
And  the  mirage  thou  hast  seen 
Glittering  in  the  sunny  sheen, 
Like  some  lake  in  sunlight  sleeping, 
Where  the  desert  wind  was  sweeping, 
And  the  sandy  column  gliding, 
Like  some  giant  onward  striding. 

Once  the  dwellers  of  thy  home 

Blessed  the  path  thy  race  had  trod. 
Kneeling  in  the  temple  dome 

To  a  reptile  god ; 
Where  the  shrine  of  Isis  shone 
Through  the  veil  before  its  throne, 
And  the  priest  with  fixed  eyes 
Watched  his  human  sacrifice  ; 
And  the  priestess  knelt  in  prayer, 
Like  some  dream  of  beauty  there. 

Thou,  unhonored  and  unknown, 
Wand'rer  o'er  the  mighty  sea! 

None  for  thee  have  reverence  shown  — 
None  have  worshipped  thee  ! 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS        141 

Here  in  vulgar  Yankee  land, 
Thou  hast  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
And  in  Frinksborough  found  a  home, 
Where  no  change  can  ever  come  1 
What  thy  closing  hours  befell 
None  may  ask,  and  none  may  tell. 

Who  hath  mourned  above  thy  grave  ? 

None  —  except  thy  ancient  nurse. 
Well  she  may  —  thy  being  gave 

Coppers  to  her  purse! 
Who  hath  questioned  her  of  thee  ? 
None,  alas  !  save  maidens  three, 
Here  to  view  thee  while  in  being, 
Yankee  curious,  paid  for  seeing, 
And  would  gratis  view  once  more 
That  for  which  they  paid  before. 

Yet  thy  quiet  rest  may  be 

Envied  by  the  human  kind, 
Who  are  showing  off  like  thee, 

To  the  careless  mind, 
Gifts  which  torture  while  they  flow, 
Thoughts  which  madden  while  they  glow, 
Pouring  out  the  heart's  deep  wealth, 
Proffering  quiet,  ease,  and  health, 
For  the  fame  which  comes  to  them 
Blended  with  their  requiem  ! 

The  following  poem,  which  I  have  never  seen  in  print, 
I  find  in  a  manuscript  collection  of  Whittier's  early  poems, 
in  the  possession  of  his  cousin,  Ann  Wendell,  of  Phila- 
delphia. It  is  a  political  curiosity,  being  a  reminiscence 
of  the  excitement  caused  by  the  mystery  of  the  disappear- 
ance of  William  Morgan,  in  the  vicinity  of  Niagara  Falls, 
in  1826.  It  was  written  in  1830,  three  years  before  Whit- 
tier  became  especially  active  in  the  anti-slavery  cause. 
He  was  then  working  in  the  interest  of  Henry  Clay  as 
against  Jackson,  and  the  Whigs  had  adopted  some  of  the 
watchwords  of  the  Anti-Masonic  party :  — 


142  WHITTIER-LAND 

THE   GRAVE   OF   MORGAN 

Wild  torrent  of  the  lakes  1  fling  out 

Thy  mighty  wave  to  breeze  and  sun, 
And  let  the  rainbow  curve  above 

The  foldings  of  thy  clouds  of  dun. 
Uplift  thy  earthquake  voice,  and  pour 
Its  thunder  to  the  reeling  shore, 
Till  cavern ed  cliff  and  hanging  wood 
Roll  back  the  echo  of  thy  flood, 
For  there  is  one  who  slumbers  now 
Beneath  thy  bow-encircled  brow, 
Whose  spirit  hath  a  voice  and  sign 
More  strong,  more  terrible  than  thine. 

A  million  hearts  have  heard  that  cry 
Ring  upward  to  the  very  sky ; 
It  thunders  still  —  it  cannot  sleep, 
But  louder  than  the  troubled  deep, 
When  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  air 
Hath  made  his  arm  of  vengeance  bare, 
And  wave  to  wave  is  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  veiling  thunder-cloud ; 
That  potent  voice  is  sounding  still  — 
The  voice  of  unrequited  ill. 

Dark  cataract  of  the  lakes !  thy  name 
Unholy  deeds  have  linked  to  fame. 
High  soars  to  heaven  thy  giant  head, 

Even  as  a  monument  to  him 
Whose  cold  unheeded  form  is  laid 

Down,  down  amid  thy  caverns  dim. 
His  requiem  the  fearful  tone 
Of  waters  falling  from  their  throne 
In  the  mid  air,  his  burial  shroud 
The  wreathings  of  thy  torrent  cloud, 
His  blazonry  the  rainbow  thrown 
Superbly  round  thy  brow  of  stone. 

Aye,  raise  thy  voice  —  the  sterner  one 
Which  tells  of  crime  in  darkness  done, 
Groans  upward  from  thy  prison  gloom 
Like  voices  from  the  thunder's  home. 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS        143 

And  men  have  heard  it,  and  the  might 

Of  freemen  rising  from  their  thrall 
Shall  drag  their  fetters  into  light, 

And  spurn  and  trample  on  them  all. 
And  vengeance  long  —  too  long  delayed  — 

Shall  rouse  to  wrath  the  souls  of  men, 
And  freedom  raise  her  holy  head 

Above  the  fallen  tyrant  then. 

This  poem,  which  was  published  in  "  The  Haverhill 
Gazette  "  in  1829,  was  copied  in  many  papers  of  that 
time,  but  was  never  in  any  collection  of  its  author's 
works  :  — 


Dweller  of  the  unpillared  air, 

Marshalling  the  storm  to  war, 
Heralding  its  presence  where 

Rolls  along  thy  cloudy  car ! 
Thou  that  speakest  from  on  high, 

Like  an  earthquake's  bursting  forth, 
Sounding  through  the  veiled  sky 

As  an  angel's  trumpet  doth. 

Bending  from  thy  dark  dominion 

Like  a  fierce,  revengeful  king, 
Blasting  with  thy  fiery  pinion 

Every  high  and  holy  thing ; 
Smitten  from  their  mountain  prison 

Thou  hast  bid  the  streams  go  free, 
And  the  ruin's  smoke  has  risen, 

Like  a  sacrifice  to  thee  ! 

Monarch  of  each  cloudy  form, 

Gathered  on  the  blue  of  heaven, 
When  the  trumpet  of  the  storm 

To  thy  lip  of  flame  is  given  ! 
In  the  wave  and  in  the  breeze, 

In  the  shadow  and  the  sun, 
God  hath  many  languages, 

And  thy  mighty  voice  is  one  ! 


144  WHITTIER-LAND 

Here  is  a  poem  of  Whittier's  that  will  remind  every 
reader  of  the  hymn  "The  Worship  of  Nature,"  which 
first  appeared  without  a  title  in  the  "Tent  on  the  Beach." 
And  yet  there  is  no  line  in  it,  and  scarcely  a  phrase,  which 
was  used  in  this  last  named  poem.  I  find  it  in  the  "  New 
England  Review,"  of  Hartford,  under  date  of  January 
24,  1831.  It  would  seem  that  "  The  Worship  of  Nature  " 
was  a  favorite  theme  of  his,  for  a  still  earlier  treatment 
of  it  I  have  found  in  the  "  Haverhill  Gazette  "  of  October 
5,  1827,  written  before  the  poet  was  twenty  years  of  age. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  while  in  the  version  of  1827  there 
are  a  few  lines  and  phrases  which  were  adopted  forty 
years  afterward,  the  lines  given  here  are  none  of  them 
copied  in  the  final  revision  of  the  poem. 

THE   WORSHIP   OF   NATURE 

"  The  air 

Is  glorious  with  the  spirit-march 
Of  messengers  of  prayer." 

There  is  a  solemn  hymn  goes  up 

From  Nature  to  the  Lord  above, 
And  offerings  from  her  incense-cup 

Are  poured  in  gratitude  and  love ; 
And  from  each  flower  that  lifts  its  eye 

In  modest  silence  in  the  shade 
To  the  strong  woods  that  kiss  the  sky 

A  thankful  song  of  praise  is  made. 

There  is  no  solitude  on  earth  — 

"  In  every  leaf  there  is  a  tongue  "  — 
In  every  glen  a  voice  of  mirth  — 

From  every  hill  a  hymn  is  sung ; 
And  every  wild  and  hidden  dell, 

Where  human  footsteps  never  trod, 
Is  wafting  songs  of  joy,  which  tell 

The  praises  of  their  maker  —  God. 

Each  mountain  gives  an  altar  birth, 
And  has  a  shrine  to  worship  given ; 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS         145 

Each  breeze  which  rises  from  the  earth 

Is  loaded  with  a  song  of  Heaven ; 
Each  wave  that  leaps  along  the  main 

Sends  solemn  music  on  the  air, 
And  winds  which  sweep  o'er  ocean's  plain 

Bear  off  their  voice  of  grateful  prayer. 

When  Night's  dark  wings  are  slowly  furled 

And  clouds  roll  off  the  orient  sky, 
And  sunlight  bursts  upon  the  world, 

Like  angels'  pinions  flashing  by, 
A  matin  hymn  unheard  will  rise 

From  every  flower  and  hill  and  tree, 
And  songs  of  joy  float  up  the  skies, 

Like  holy  anthems  from  the  sea. 

When  sunlight  dies,  and  shadows  fall, 

And  twilight  plumes  her  rosy  wing, 
Devotion's  breath  lifts  Music's  pall, 

And  silvery  voices  seem  to  sing. 
And  when  the  earth  falls  soft  to  rest, 

And  young  wind's  pinions  seem  to  tire, 
Then  the  pure  streams  upon  its  breast 

Join  their  glad  sounds  with  Nature's  lyre. 

And  when  the  sky  that  bends  above 

Is  lighted  up  with  spirit  fires, 
A  gladdening  song  of  praise  and  love 

Is  pealing  from  the  sky-tuned  lyres  ; 
And  every  star  that  throws  its  light 

From  off  Creation's  bending  brow, 
Is  offering  on  the  shrine  of  Night 

The  same  unchanging  subject -vow. 

Thus  Earth  's  a  temple  vast  and  fair, 

Filled  with  the  glorious  works  of  love 
When  earth  and  sky  and  sea  and  air 

Join  in  the  praise  of  God  above ; 
And  still  through  countless  coming  years 

Unwearied  songs  of  praise  shall  roll 
On  plumes  of  love  to  Him  who  hears 

The  softest  strain  in  Music's  soul. 


I46  WHITTIER-LAND 

There  was  a  remarkable  display  of  the  aurora  borealis  in 
January,  1837,  an^  tn^s  poem  commemorates  the  phe- 
nomenon :  — 

THE   NORTHERN   LIGHTS 

A  light  is  troubling  heaven  !  A  strange  dull  glow- 
Hangs  like  a  half-quenched  veil  of  fire  between 
The  blue  sky  and  the  earth ;  and  the  shorn  stars 
Gleam  faint  and  sickly  through  it.   Day  hath  left 
No  token  of  its  parting,  and  the  blush 
With  which  it  welcomed  the  embrace  of  Night 
Has  faded  from  the  blue  cheek  of  the  West ; 
Yet  from  the  solemn  darkness  of  the  North, 
Stretched  o'er  the  "  empty  place  "  by  God's  own  hand, 
Trembles  and  waves  that  curtain  of  pale  fire,  — 
Tingeing  with  baleful  and  unnatural  hues 
The  winter  snows  beneath.    It  is  as  if 
Nature's  last  curse  —  the  fearful  plague  of  fire  — 
Were  working  in  the  elements,  and  the  skies 
Even  as  a  scroll  consuming. 

Lo,  a  change ! 

The  fiery  wonder  sinks,  and  all  along 
A  dark  deep  crimson  rests  —  a  sea  of  blood, 
Untroubled  by  a  wave.    And  over  all 
Bendeth  a  luminous  arch  of  pale,  pure  white, 
Clearly  contrasted  with  the  blue  above, 
And  the  dark  red  beneath  it.   Glorious  ! 
How  like  a  pathway  for  the  Shining  Ones, 
The  pure  and  beautiful  intelligences 
Who  minister  in  Heaven,  and  offer  up 
Their  praise  as  incense,  or  like  that  which  rose 
Before  the  Pilgrim  prophet,  when  the  tread 
Of  the  most  holy  angels  brightened  it, 
And  in  his  dream  the  haunted  sleeper  saw 
The  ascending  and  descending  of  the  blest ! 

And  yet  another  change !    O'er  half  the  sky 

A  long  bright  flame  is  trembling,  like  the  sword 

Of  the  great  angel  of  the  guarded  gate 

Of  Paradise,  when  all  the  holy  streams 

And  beautiful  bowers  of  Eden-land  blushed  red 

Beneath  its  awful  wavering,  and  the  eyes 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS         147 

Of  the  outcasts  quailed  before  its  glare, 
As  from  the  immediate  questioning  of  God. 

And  men  are  gazing  at  these  "signs  in  heaven," 
With  most  unwonted  earnestness,  and  fair 
And  beautiful  brows  are  reddening  in  the  light 
Of  this  strange  vision  of  the  upper  air : 
Even  as  the  dwellers  of  Jerusalem 
Beleaguered  by  the  Romans  —  when  the  skies 
Of  Palestine  were  thronged  with  fiery  shapes, 
And  from  Antonia's  tower  the  mailed  Jew 
Saw  his  own  image  pictured  in  the  air, 
Contending  with  the  heathen  ;  and  the  priest 
Beside  the  temple's  altar  veiled  his  face 
From  that  fire-written  language  of  the  sky. 

Oh  God  of  mystery  !  these  fires  are  thine  ! 

Thy  breath  hath  kindled  them,  and  there  they  burn 

Amid  the  permanent  glory  of  Thy  heavens, 

That  earliest  revelation  written  out 

In  starry  language,  visible  to  all, 

Lifting  unto  Thyself  the  heavy  eyes 

Of  the  down-looking  spirits  of  the  earth  ! 

The  Indian,  leaning  on  his  hunting-bow, 

Where  the  ice-mountains  hem  the  frozen  pole, 

And  the  hoar  architect  of  winter  piles 

With  tireless  hand  his  snowy  pyramids, 

Looks  upward  in  deep  awe,  —  while  all  around 

The  eternal  ices  kindle  with  the  hues 

Which  tremble  on  their  gleaming  pinnacles 

And  sharp  cold  ridges  of  enduring  frost,  — 

And  points  his  child  to  the  Great  Spirit's  fire. 

Alas  for  us  who  boast  of  deeper  lore, 
If  in  the  maze  of  our  vague  theories, 
Our  speculations,  and  our  restless  aim 
To  search  the  secret,  and  familiarize 
The  awful  things  of  nature,  we  forget 
To  own  Thy  presence  in  Thy  mysteries  ! 

This  imitation  of  "  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket "  was  writ- 
ten in  1826,  when  Whittier  was  in  his  nineteenth  year, 
and  except  a  single  stanza,  no  part  of  it  was  ever  before 


148  WHI.TTIER-LAND 

in  print.  The  willow  the  young  poet  had  in  mind  was  on 
the  bank  of  Country  Brook,  near  Country  Bridge,  and 
also  near  the  site  of  Thomas  Whittier's  log  house.  Mr. 
Whittier  once  pointed  out  this  spot  to  me  as  one  in 
which  he  delighted  in  his  youth.  On  a  grassy  bank,  almost 
encircled  by  a  bend  in  the  stream,  stood,  and  perhaps 
still  stands,  just  such  a  "  storm-battered,  water-washed 
willow  "  as  is  here  described  :  — 

THE   WILLOW 

Oh,  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  which  delighted 
My  fancy  in  moments  I  ne'er  can  recall, 
When  each  happy  hour  new  pleasures  invited, 
And  hope  pictured  visions  more  lovely  than  all. 
When  I  gazed  with  a  light  heart  transported  and  glowing, 
On  the  forest-crowned  hill,  and  the  rivulet's  tide, 
O'ershaded  with  tall  grass,  and  rapidly  flowing 
Around  the  lone  willow  that  stood  by  its  side  — 
The  storm-battered  willow,  the  ivy-bound  willow,  the  water-washed 
willow,  that  grew  by  its  side. 

Dear  scenes  of  past  years,  when  the  objects  around  me 
Seemed  forms  to  awaken  the  transports  of  joy ; 
Ere  yet  the  dull  cares  of  experience  had  found  me, 
The  dearly-loved  visions  of  youth  to  destroy,  — 
Ye  seem  to  awaken,  whene'er  I  discover 
The  grass-shadowed  rivulet  rapidly  glide, 
The  green  verdant  meads  of  the  vale  wandering  over 
And  laving  the  willows  that  stand  by  its  side  — 
The  storm-battered  willow,  the  ivy-bound  willow,  the  water -washed 
willow,  that  stands  by  its  side ;  — 

How  oft  'neath  the  shade  of  that  wide-spreading  willow 
I  have  laid  myself  down  from  anxiety  free, 
Reclining  my  head  on  the  green  grassy  pillow, 
That  waved  round  the  roots  of  that  dearly -loved  tree  ; 
Where  swift  from  the  far  distant  uplands  descending, 
In  the  bright  sunbeam  sparkling,  the  rivulet's  tide 
With  murmuring  echoes  came  gracefully  wending 
Its  course  round  the  willow  that  stood  by  its  side  — 
The  storm -battered  willow,  the  ivy -bound  willow,  the  water  washed 
willow  that  stood  by  its  side. 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS         149 

Haunts  of  my  childhood,  that  used  to  awaken 
Emotions  of  joy  in  my  infantile  breast, 
Ere  yet  the  fond  pleasures  of  youth  had  forsaken 
My  bosom,  and  all  the  bright  dreams  you  impressed 
On  my  memory  had  faded,  ye  give  not  the  feeling 
Of  joy  that  ye  did,  when  I  gazed  on  the  tide, 
As  gracefully  winding,  its  currents  came  stealing 
Around  the  lone  willow  that  stood  by  its  side  — 
The  storm -battered  willow,  the  ivy-bound  willow,  the  water-washed 
willow,  that  stood  by  its  side. 

This  is  a  fragment  of  a  poem  written  in*  the  album  of 
a  cousin  in  Philadelphia,  in  1838.  It  was  never  before  in 
print:  — 

THE   USES   OF    SORROW 

It  may  be  that  tears  at  whiles 

Should  take  the  place  of  folly's  smiles, 

When  'neath  some  Heaven-directed  blow, 

Like  those  of  Horeb's  rock,  they  flow; 

For  sorrows  are  in  mercy  given 

To  fit  the  chastened  soul  for  Heaven ; 

Prompting  with  woe  and  weariness 

Our  yearning  for  that  better  sky, 

Which,  as  the  shadows  close  on  this, 

Grows  brighter  to  the  longing  eye. 

For  each  unwelcome  blow  may  break, 

Perchance,  some  chain  which  binds  us  here ; 

And  clouds  around  the  heart  may  make 

The  vision  of  our  faith  more  clear; 

As  through  the  shadowy  veil  of  even 

The  eye  looks  farthest  into  Heaven, 

On  gleams  of  star,  and  depths  of  blue, 

The  fervid  sunshine  never  knew  ! 

In  the  summer  of  1856,  Charles  A.  Dana,  then  one  of 
the  editors  of  the  New  York  "Tribune,"  wrote  to  Whittier, 
calling  upon  him  for  campaign  songs  for  Fremont.  He 
said  :  "  A  powerful  means  of  exciting  and  maintaining  the 
spirit  of  freedom  in  the  coming  decisive  contest  must  be 
songs.  If  we  are  to  conquer,  as  I  trust  in  God  we  are,  a 


ISO  WHITTIER-LAND 

great  deal  must  be  done  by  that  genial  and  inspiring 
stimulant."  Whittier  responded  with  several  songs  sung 
during  the  campaign  for  free  Kansas,  but  the  following 
lines  for  some  reason  he  desired  should  appear  without 
his  name,  either  in  the  "  National  Era,"  in  which  they 
first  appeared,  August  14,  1856,  or  with  the  music  to  which 
they  were  set.  A  recently  discovered  letter,  written  by  him 
to  a  friend  in  Philadelphia  who  was  intrusted  to  set  the 
song  to  music,  avows  its  authorship,  and  also  credits  to 
his  sister  Elizabeth  another  song,  "  Fremont's  Ride,"  pub- 
lished in  the  same  number  of  the  "  Era."  As  the  brother 
probably  had  some  hand  in  the  composition  of  this  last- 
mentioned  piece,  it  is  given  here.  This  is  Whittier's 
song:— 

WE'RE   FREE 

The  robber  o'er  the  prairie  stalks 

And  calls  the  land  his  own, 
And  he  who  talks  as  Slavery  talks 
Is  free  to  talk  alone. 

But  tell  the  knaves  we  are  not  slaves, 

And  tell  them  slaves  we  ne'er  will  be ; 
Come  weal  or  woe,  the  world  shall  know, 
We  're  free,  we  're  free,  we  're  free. 

Oh,  watcher  on  the  outer  wall, 

How  wears  the  night  away  ? 
I  hear  the  birds  of  morning  call, 

I  see  the  break  of  day ! 

Rise,  tell  the  knaves,  etc. 

The  hands  that  hold  the  sword  and  purse 

Ere  long  shall  lose  their  prey; 
And  they  who  blindly  wrought  the  curse, 

The  curse  shall  sweep  away  ! 
Then  tell  the  knaves,  etc. 

The  land  again  in  peace  shall  rest, 

With  blood  no  longer  stained  ; 
The  virgin  beauty  of  the  West 

Shall  be  no  more  profaned. 

We  '11  teach  the  knaves,  etc. 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS         151 

The  snake  about  her  cradle  twined, 

Shall  infant  Kansas  tear  ; 
And  freely  on  the  Western  wind 

Shall  float  her  golden  hair  ! 
So  tell  the  knaves,  etc. 

Then  let  the  idlers  stand  apart, 
And  cowards  shun  the  fight ; 
We  '11  band  together,  heart  to  heart, 
Forget,  forgive,  unite ! 

And  tell  the  knaves  we  are  not  slaves, 

And  tell  them  slaves  we  ne'er  will  be; 
Come  weal  or  woe,  the  world  shall  know 
We  're  free,  we  're  free,  we  're  free  t 


It  was  Whittier's  habit  to  freely  suggest  lines  and  even 
whole  stanzas  for  poems  submitted  to  him  for  criticism, 
and  it  may  be  readily  believed  that  his  hand  is  shown  in 
this  campaign  song  of  his  sister's  :  — 

FREMONT'S   RIDE 

As  His  mountain  men  followed,  undoubting  and  bold, 
O'er  hill  and  o'er  desert,  through  tempest  and  cold, 
So  the  people  now  burst  from  each  fetter  and  thrall, 
And  answer  with  shouting  the  wild  bugle  call. 
Who  '11  follow  ?    Who  11  follow  ? 

The  bands  gather  fast ; 

They  who  ride  with  Fremont 

Ride  in  triumph  at  last ! 

Oh,  speed  the  bold  riders  !  fling  loose  every  rein, 
The  race  run  for  freedom  is  not  run  in  vain  ; 
From  mountain  and  prairie,  from  lake  and  from  sea, 
Ride  gallant  and  hopeful,  ride  fearless  and  free ! 
Who  '11  follow,  etc. 

The  shades  of  the  Fathers  for  Freedom  who  died, 
As  they  rode  in  the  war  storm,  now  ride  at  our  side  ; 
Their  great  souls  shall  strengthen  our  own  for  the  fray, 
And  the  glance  of  our  leader  make  certain  the  way. 
Then  follow,  etc. 


152  WHITTIER-LAND 

We  ride  not  for  honors,  ambition  or  place, 
But  the  wrong  to  redress,  and  redeem  the  disgrace ; 
Not  for  the  North,  nor  for  South,  but  the  best  good  of  all, 
We  follow  Fremont,  and  his  wild  bugle  call  1 
Who  '11  follow  ?    Who  '11  follow  ? 

The  bands  gather  fast ; 

They  who  ride  with  Fremont 

Ride  in  triumph  at  last  1 

The  following  poem  was  written  at  the  close  of  his 
last  term  at  the  Academy,  and  was  published  in  the  "  Ha- 
verhill  Gazette"  of  October  4,  1828,  signed  "  Adrian." 
Probably  no  other  poem  written  by  him  in  those  days 
was  so  universally  copied  by  the  press  of  the  whole  coun- 
try. Its  rather  pessimistic  tone  no  doubt  caused  the 
poet  to  omit  it  from  collections  made  after  the  great 
change  in  his  outlook  upon  life  to  which  reference  has 
been  made  on  another  page. 


THE   TIMES 

"  Oh  dear!  oh  dear!   I  grieve,  I  grieve, 
For  the  good  old  days  of  Adam  and  Eve." 

The  times,  the  times,  I  say,    the  times   are  growing  worse  than 

ever ; 
The  good  old  ways   our  fathers    trod   shall   grace   their  children 

never. 

The  homely  hearth  of  ancient  mirth,  all  traces  of  the  plough, 
The  places  of  their  worship,  are  all  forgotten  now  ! 

Farewell  the  farmers'  honest  looks  and  independent  mien, 
The  tassel  of  his  waving  corn,  the  blossom  of  the  bean, 
The  turnip  top,  the  pumpkin  vine,  the  produce  of  his  toil, 
Have  given  place  to  flower  pots,  and  plants  of  foreign  soil. 

Farewell  the  pleasant  husking  match,  its  merry  after  scenes, 
When  Indian  pudding  smoked  beside  the  giant  pot  of  beans ; 
When  ladies  joined  the  social  band,  nor  once  affected  fear, 
But  gave  a  pretty  cheek  to  kiss  for  every  crimson  ear. 


WHITTIER'S    UNCOLLECTED    POEMS         153 

Affected  modesty  was  not  the  test  of  virtue  then, 

And  few  took  pains  to  swoon  away  at  sight  of  ugly  men ; 

For  well  they  knew  the  purity  which  woman's  heart  should  own 

Depends  not  on  appearances,  but  on  the  heart  alone. 

Farewell  unto  the  buoyancy  and  openness  of  youth  — 
The  confidence  of  kindly  hearts  —  the  consciousness  of  truth, 
The  honest  tone  of  sympathy  —  the  language  of  the  heart  — 
Now  cursed  by  fashion's  tyranny,  or  turned  aside  by  art. 

Farewell  the  social  quilting  match,  the  song,  the  merry  play, 
The  whirling  of  a  pewter  plate,  the  merry  fines  to  pay, 
The  mimic  marriage  brought  about  by  leaping  o'er  a  broom, 
The  good  old  blind  man's  buff,  the  laugh  that  shook  the  room. 

Farewell  the  days  of  industry  —  the  t'.me  has  glided  by 
When  pretty  hands  were  prettiest  in  making  pumpkin  pie. 
When  waiting  maids  were  needed  not,  and  morning  brought  along 
The  music  of  the  spinning  wheel,  the  milkmaid's  careless  song. 

Ah,  days  of  artless  innocence!    Your  dwellings  are  no  more, 
And  ye  are  turning  from  the  path  our  fathers  trod  before ; 
The  homely  hearth  of  honest  mirth,  all  traces  of  the  plough, 
The  places  of  their  worshiping,  are  all  forgotten  now ! 

I  find  among  Mr.  Whittier's  papers  the  first  draft  of  a 
poem  that  he  does  not  seem  to  have  prepared  for  publica- 
tion. As  it  was  written  on  the  back  of  a  note  he  received 
in  March,  1890,  that  was  probably  the  date  of  its  compo- 
sition :  — 

A    SONG    OF    PRAISES 

For  the  land  that  gave  me  birth  ; 
For  my  native  home  and  hearth  ; 
For  the  change  and  overturning 
Of  the  times  of  my  sojourning  ; 
For  the  world-step  forward  taken  ; 
For  an  evil  way  forsaken  ; 

For  cruel  law  abolished; 

For  idol  shrines  demolished  ; 


154  WHITTIER-LAND 

For  the  tools  of  peaceful  labor 
Wrought  from  broken  gun  and  sabre ; 
For  the  slave-chain  rent  asunder 
And  by  free  feet  trodden  under  ; 
For  the  truth  defeating  error ; 
For  the  love  that  casts  out  terror  ; 
For  the  truer,  clearer  vision 
Of  Humanity's  great  mission  ;  — 

For  all  that  man  upraises, 

I  sing  this  song  of  praises. 

The  following  poem  is  a  variant  of  the  "  Hymn  for  the 
Opening  of  Thomas  Starr  King's  House  of  Worship," 
and  was  contributed  in  1883  to  a  fair  in  aid  of  an  Epis- 
copal chapel  at  Holderness,  N.  H. 

UNITY 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  our  severing  ways, 

The  separate  altars  that  we  raise, 

The  varying  tongues  that  speak  Thy  praise  ! 

Suffice  it  now.     In  time  to  be 
Shall  one  great  temple  rise  to  Thee, 
Thy  church  our  broad  humanity. 

White  flowers  of  love  its  walls  shall  climb, 
Sweet  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

The  hymn,  long  sought,  shall  then  be  heard, 
The  music  of  the  world's  accord, 
Confessing  Christ,  the  inward  word  ! 

That  song  shall  swell  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  faith,  one  love,  one  hope  restore 
The  seamless  garb  that  Jesus  wore ! 


INDEX 


INDEX 


"  ABRAM  MORRISON,"  86. 

"Adrian,"  152. 

Agamenticus,  86,  89. 

Aldrich,  T.  B.,  75. 

Allinson,  Francis  Greenleaf,  39. 

Allinson,  W.  J.,  39. 

American  Manufacturer,  69,  71,  102,  136. 

Amesbury,  3,  42,  55-89. 

Amesbury  public  library,  95. 

Ancient  desk,  20. 

Andover,  5. 

Anecdotes  as  told  by  Whittier :  Aunt 
Mercy's  vision,  22,  23  ;  Country  Bridge 
ghost,  15 ;  conscience  stirred  by  thun- 
derstorm, 27 ;  Elizabeth's  practical 
joke,  28  ;  the  "  tipsy  wife,"  3 1,  32  ;  cold 
drives  to  Amesbury,  33;  "Old  But- 
ler," 36;  the  Morse  boys,  36;  Garri- 
son's first  visit,  37;  a  Quaker  swaps 
cows,  37;  "the  power  of  figures," 
40-42 ;  instance  of  guidance  of  spirit, 
82,  83;  legend  of  Po  Hill,  85,  86; 
Chase  characterizes  Lincoln's  stories, 
98;  Hiram  Collins  and  Emerson,  98,  99. 

Anecdotes  related  of  Whittier :  Last 
visit  to  birthplace,  24-38  ;  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  26  ;  attempt  at  levitation,  28 ; 
visits  sile  of  "In  School  Days,1'  32; 
cherry-tree  incident,  34 ;  story  of  Eve- 
lina Bray,  68-72 ;  receives  lightning 
stroke,  73 ;  taking  notes  at  Quaker 
meeting,  82  ;  sees  mirage  at  Salisbury 
Beach,  91  ;  Miss  Phelps"  describes  first 
meeting,  102;  thirteen  at  table,  93,94; 
clock  strikes  mysteriously,  95  ;  the  May 
Quarterly  Meeting,  96  ;  saving  money 
for  funeral  expenses,  96;  the  pet  par- 
rot, 97,  98 ;  husking  at  West  Ossipee, 
111-114;  a.n  evening  at  Bearcamp, 
114-118;  Alice  Freeman  Palmer's  story, 
1 18, 1 19 ;  contract  of  perpetual  bache- 
lorhood, 119;  his  English  Quaker 
guest,  122  ;  escapes  dedication  of  Bart- 
lett  statue,  122. 

Anti-Masonic  poem,  141. 

Appledore,  92. 

Artichoke  River,  57,  58. 

"  A  Sea  Dream,"  69. 

"A  Song  of  Praises,"  153,  154. 

Ayer,  Capt.  Edmund,  29,  30. 

Ayer,  Lydia,  26,  30. 

Ayer,  Lydia  Amanda  (Mrs.  Evans),  30. 

Ayer,  NIrs.,  117. 


Bagley,  Valentine,  84. 
Bailey,  Mary,  116. 
Bailey's  Hill,  83. 
Bancroft,  George,  64. 
Barnard,  Mary,  96. 
Bartlett,  Josiah,  84,  122-125. 
Bearcamp  House,  110-117. 
Beecher,  Catherine,  70. 
Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  76. 
Birchy  Meadow,  44. 
Birthplace  of  Whittier,  8,  9-40. 
Blaine,  James  G.,  64,  77,  78. 
Boar's  Head,  86,  89. 
Bonny  Beag,  86. 
Boon  Island,  86. 
Boston  "  Statesman,"  102. 
Boutelle,  Thomas  E.,  99. 
Boyd,  Rev.  P.  S.,  4. 
Boynton,  E.  Moody,  122-124. 
Bradbury,  Judge,  and  wife,  56. 
Bradford,  3. 
Bradstreet,  Anne,  5. 
Bray,  Evelina,  68,  71. 
Brown's  Hill,  84. 
Burnham,  Thomas  E.,  38. 
Burroughs,  George,  101. 
Butler,  Benjamin  F.,  36. 
Butler,  Philip,  76. 
Butters,  Charles,  38. 
Byron,  Lord,  134-136. 

Caldwell,  Adelaide,  112,  113,  117. 

Caldwell,  Louis,  113. 

Caldwell,  Mary  (Whittier),  25,  74. 

Cape  Ann,  86. 

Captain's  Well,  The,  83,  84. 

Carleton,  James  H.,  38. 

Cartland,   Gertrude  (Whittier),  20,   104 ; 

"3- 

Cartland  house,  Newburyport,  20,  101. 
Cartland,  Joseph,  82,  85,  92,  104,  113. 
Catalogue  of  father's  library,  24,  25. 
Cate,  George  W.,  101. 
Centre  Harbor,  N.  H.,99,  no,  113. 
Chain  Bridge,  59,  60. 
Chamber  in  which  Whittier  died,  94. 
"  Changeling,  The,"  92. 
Chase,  Aaron,  30,  32. 
Chase,  Mrs.  Moses,  32. 
Chase,  Salmon  P.,  98. 
Child,  Lydia  Maria,  75. 
Chocorua,  110-115. 
Churchill,  J.W.,  133. 


1 58 


INDEX 


ri.ulin.  William,  102,  118. 

Clarkson,  Thomas,  25. 

Clay,  Henry,  77,  141. 

"  Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision,"  86. 

Coffin,  Joshua,  26,  30,  31,  103,  104. 

Coggswell,  William,  64. 

Collier,  Rev.  William  R.,  102. 

Collins,  Hiram,  124. 

"  Common  Question,  The,"  97. 

Corliss  Hill,  30-32. 

"  Countess,  The,"  47,  51. 

Country  Bridge,  14,  15,  46. 

Country  Brook,  14-17,  104. 

Crane  Neck,  86. 

Currier,  Horace,  117. 

Curson's  Mill,  57,  58. 

Gushing,  Caleb,  5. 

Dana,  Charles  A.,  149. 
Danvers,  86. 

Daughters  of  the  Revolution,  84. 
Davis,  Robert  T.t  122. 
Deer  Island,  5,  58-60. 
Dickens,  Charles,  108. 
"  Division,  The,"  109. 
Douglass,  Frederick,  64. 
Downey,  Evelina  (Bray),  71. 
Downey,  W.  S.,  70. 
Duncan,  Sarah  M.  F.,  38. 
Dustin,  Hannah,  40. 

East  Haverhill,  3. 

East  Haverhill  church,  51. 

Ela,  Amelia,  19. 

"  Eleanor,"  46. 

Ellwood's  "  Drab-Skirted  Muse,"  25. 

Emerson,  Nehemiah,  66. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  65,  99. 

Emmons,  "  Ginger-Pop,"  124. 

Essex  Club,  64. 

"  Eternal  Goodness,  The,"  63,  107. 

"  Eternity,"  137,  138. 

"  Exiles,  The,"  84. 

Fernside  Brook,  9,  n,  12,  16,  17. 

Ferry,  the,  75. 

Fields,  Annie,  102. 

Fields,  James  T.,  46,  102. 

Fletcher,  Rev.  J.  C.,  58,  89,  92. 

Ford,  Miss,  112,  116. 

"  Fountain,  The,"  87. 

Fox,  George,  25,  47. 

"  Fragment,  A,"  136. 

Frankle,  Annie  W.,  38. 

Fremont,  J.  C. ,  149. 

Friend  Street,  58. 

Friends' meeting-house,  33,  80,  81. 

Frietchie,  Barbara,  65. 

Frinksborough,  138. 

"  Gail  Hamilton's  Wedding,"  120-122. 

Garden  at  birthplace,  18. 

Garden  room,  Amesbury,  32,  62-71. 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd,  37,  76,  103,  104. 

Garrison's  birthplace,  103. 

Golden  Hill,  8. 

Goodspeed,  C.  E.,  51  note. 

"  Goody  "  Martin,  56,  57,  84. 


Gordon,  "  Chinese,"  65. 
Gove,  Sarah  Abby,  92,  93. 
"  Grave  of  Morgan,  The,"  142,  143. 
Green,  Ruth,  29. 
Greene,  Nathaniel,  102. 
Greenleaf,  Sarah,  20,  22,  29,  103. 
GrimW,  Angelina,  119. 
Group  at  Sturtevant's,  113. 
Groveland,  3. 

"  Hamilton,  Gail,"  108,  120-122. 

Hampton  Beach,  86,  88. 

Hampton  Falls,  92,  93. 

Hampton  marshes,  92. 

Hampton  River,  88. 

Haskell,  George,  40. 

"  Haunted  Bridge  of  Country  Brook," 

'5- 

Haverhill,  3,  7. 
Haverhill  Academy,  6,  129. 
"  Haverhill  Gazette,"  24,  48,  136,  143, 

'5*- 

Hawkswood,  58. 
Hay,  John,  75. 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth,  78. 
Hines,  Peter,  117. 
Hoar,  George  F.,  64. 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  108. 
"  Homecoming  of  the  Bride,  The,"  15, 

104. 

How,  George  C.,  38. 
"  How  they  climbed  Chocorua,"  m. 


Howe,  Julia  Ward,  75. 
Hume,  Isabel,  116. 


Huntington,  Jacob  R.,  84,  122. 
Hussey,  Mercy  Evans,  21,26,  61,  62,85. 

Ichneumon,  the  living,  138. 
"  In  School  Days,"  26,  30,  32. 
Ipswich,  86. 

Ireson,  Capt.  Benjamin,  72. 
Isles  of  Shoals,  86,  89,  91,  117. 
"  I    would    not    lose     that     Romance 
Wild,"  130. 

Jackson,  Andrew,  141. 
Job's  Hill,  9,  12, 17,  36. 
Johnson,  Caroline,  101. 
Johnson,  Mary,  101. 
"  June  on  the  Merrimac,"  58. 
"  Justice  and  Expediency,"  22. 

Kansas,  150,  151. 

Kearsarge,  86. 

Kelley,  Clarence  E.,  38. 

Kimball's  Pond,  95. 

Kitchen  at  birthplace,  17,  19,  21,  23. 

Knox  brothers,  110-115. 

Ladcl,  "  Squire,"  32. 

Lake  Kenoza,  8,  10. 

Lansing,  Miss,  in,  116. 

Larcom,  Lucy,  in,  114,  116. 

"  Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  The,"  56. 

"  Last  Will  of  Man  in  Bear-Trap,  The," 

116-118. 

"  Laurels,  The,"  58. 
Lee,  N.  H.,  100. 


INDEX 


159 


Little  Boar's  Head,  86. 
Livermore,  Harriet,  39,  101. 
Lloyd,  Elizabeth,  34. 
Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  65,  108. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  108. 

"  Mabel  Martin,"  56,  84. 

Macy  house,  84. 

Macy,  Thomas,  84. 

"  Maids  of  Attitash,  The,"  95. 

Map  of  Whittier-Land,  xii 

Marlboro  Hotel,  102. 

"  Memorial,  A,"  98. 

"  Memories,"  66. 

Menahga,  46. 

Merrimac,  town,  3,  44,  82. 

Merrimac  River,  3,  4,  44,  56,  58,  60. 

Millvale,  15,  46,  104. 

Minpt,  Harriet  (Mrs.  Pitman),  138. 

"  Miriam,"  86. 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  75. 

"  Moll  Pitcher,"  66  note,  131. 

Monadnock,  33,  86. 

Morgan,  William,  141. 

Morrill,  Jettie,  116. 

Morse,  '"Goody,"  104. 

Mother's  room,  22,  23. 

Moulton  house,  Hampton,  92. 

Moulton's  Hill,  58. 

Mount  Washington,  86. 

Mundy  Hill,  84,  87. 

"  My  Double,"  123-125. 

"  My  Namesake,"  39. 

"My  Playmate,"  44,  46,  67. 

"  Name,  A,''  74. 

"  National  Era,"  76,  150. 

Newbury,  3,  14,  32,  44,  56,  58,  86,  103. 

Newburyport,  3,  86. 

"  New  England,"  131-134. 

"  New   England   Review,"  43,   76,  131, 

New  York  "  Tribune,"  149. 

"  New  Wife  and  the  Old,  The,"  92. 

Niagara  Falls,  141. 

Nicholson,  Elizabeth,  34. 

"  Northern  Lights,  The,"  146,  147. 

Nottingham,  N.  H.,  96. 

Oak  Knoll,  Danvers,   99,  101,  122,  123. 

Ode  for  dedication  of  Academy,  7. 

"  Old  Burying  Ground,  The,"  51. 

"Old  Oaken  Bucket,  The,"  147. 

Old  South  meeting-house,  Newburyport, 

103,  104. 

"  One  of  the  Signers,"  122. 
Ordway,  Alfred  A.,  17-19,  35,  38,  46. 
Ossipee  range,  86. 
"  Our  River,"  58. 
"  Ours,"  79,  80. 

Palmer,  Alice  Freeman,  118,  ng. 

Passaconaway,  86. 

Pawtuckaway  range,  95. 

Peaslee  house,  "  Old  Garrison,"  46,  47, 

55- 

Peaslee,  Joseph,  47. 
Peaslee,  Mary,  29,  46. 


"  Pennsylvania  Freeman,"  61,  70,  76. 

Pennsylvania  Hall,  119. 

Pickard,  Elizabeth  (Whittier),  20,  22, 
39,  7i,  74,  75,  85,  9°,  94,  J°9,  "6. 

Pickard,  Greenleaf  Whittier,  74,  94. 

Pickard,  S.  T.,  n6,  117. 

Pillsbury,  Mary,  35. 

Pleasant  Valley,  55,  58. 

Plum  Island,  86. 

Plummer,  Celeste,  112,  116. 

Poems  hitherto  uncollected  :  Ode  sung 
at  dedication  of  Academy,  7  ;  Catalogue 
of  his  father's  library,  22  ;  Lines  in  al- 
bum, 30;  "A  Retrospect,''  35  ;  "  The 
Plaint  of  the  Merrimac,"  59,  60  ;  "  The 
Division,"  109;  "  How  they  climbed 
Chocorua,"  111-114;  "To  'the  Un- 
known and  Absent  Author  of  '  How 
they  climbed  Chocorua,'"  114,  115; 
"  Last  Will  of  Man  in  Bear-Trap," 
i  i6-r  18  ;  Weld  epithalamium,  1  19,  120  ; 
"Gail  Hamilton's  Wedding,"  120- 
122;  "My  Double,"  123-125;  "I 
would  not  lose  that  Romance  Wild," 
130;  "  New  England,"  131-133; 
"That  Vow  of  Thine,"  133,  134;  "The 
Spectre,"  135,136;  "A  Fragment." 
136,  137  ;  "  Eternity,"  137,  138;  "  Dead 
Ichneumon,"  139-141  ;  "  Grave  of 
Morgan,"  142,  143  ;  "  The  Thunder 
Spirit,"  143  ;  "  Worship  of  Nature," 
144,  145  ;  "  Northern  Lights,"  146,  147; 
"  The  Willow,"  148,  149  ;  "  Uses  of 
Sorrow,"  149  ;  "  We  're  Free,"  150, 
151  ;  "  Fremont's  Ride,"  151,  152  ; 
"The  Times,"  152,  153;  "Song  of 
Praises,"  153,  154. 

Po  Hill,  33,  57,  84,  87. 

Pond  Hills,  44. 

Porter,  Dudley,  38. 


Porter,  J.  S.,  25,  71. 
Portland,  20,  22,  118. 


Powow  River,  56,  57,  60,  79,  83,  84,  86-87, 

88. 

"  Preacher,  The,"  84. 
"  Pressed  Gentian,  The,"  64. 
Purchase  of  birthplace,  38. 

Ramoth  Hill,  46,  67. 

"  Relic,  The,"  64. 

"  Revisited,"  58. 

Reunion  of  schoolmates,  70. 

River  Path,  picture  of,  5. 

"  River  Path,  The,"  49,  55,  56. 

River  valley,   near  grave    of  Countess, 

49. 

Rocks  Bridge,  48. 
Rocks  Village,  32,  44,  46,  51,  55. 
Rocky  Hill,  84.' 

Rocky  Hill  meeting-house,  87,  89. 
Rogers,  John,  125. 
Rowley,  86. 

Salisbury,  3,  14. 
Salisbury  Beach,  86,  88,  89. 
Salisbury  Point,  77. 
Saltrmstall  mansion,  45. 
Sanders,  Susan  B.,  38. 


I6o 


INDEX 


"  Sea  Dream,  A,''  69. 

Scene  on  Country  Brook,  43. 

Sewel's  "  Painful  History,"  25. 

Silver  Hill,  8,  10. 

Smith,  Joseph  Lindon,  26. 

Smith,  Mary  Emerson,  66,  67. 

Smith,  S.  F.,  71,  72. 

Smith,  Mrs.  S.  ¥.,  71,  72. 

"  Snow-Bound,"   12,  20,  24,  39,  48,  63, 

74- 

Snow-Bound  barn,  12. 
Snow-Bound  kitchen,  12,  17-52. 
Somersworth,  N.  H.,  22. 
"  Song  of  Praises,  A,"  153,  154. 
Sparhawk,  Dr.  Thomas,  76. 
"  Spectre,  The,"  135,  136. 
Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott,  5,  59. 
Stanton,  Edwin  M.,  84. 
Stowe,,  Harriet  Beecher,  75. 
Sturge,  Joseph,  61,  63-65. 
Sturtevant,  Miss,  112. 
Sturtevant,  Mrs.,  117. 
Sturtevant's,  no,  113. 
Simmer,  Charles,  108. 
Sycamores,  the,  8,  45. 

Tallant,  Hugh,  45. 

Tappan,  Lewis,  62. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  65. 

Taylor,  Henry,  98,  99. 

Taylor,  Marie,  66. 

"Telling  the  Bees,"  17. 

"  Tent  on  the  Beach,  The,"  74,  87,  90, 

91. 

"  That  Vow  of  Thine,"  133,  134. 
Thaxter,  Celia,  92. 
Thayer,  Abijah  W.,  24. 
Thayer,  Sarah  S.,  24. 
Thomas,  Mary  Emerson  (Smith),  66,  67. 
Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  5. 
Thornton,  Sir  Edward,  58. 
"Times,  The,"  152,  153. 
"To  My  Old  Schoolmaster,"  30,  104. 
Tracy,  Mrs.,  49. 
Trowbridge,  J.  T.,  28,  40. 
Turner,  Judge,  77. 

Union  Cemetery,  29,  57,  84,  85. 
"  Unity,"  154. 

"  Up  and  Down  the  Merrimac,"  4. 
"  Uses  of  Sorrow,  The,;>  149. 

Wachusett,  33,  86. 
Wade,  Mrs.,  113. 
Wakeman,  Rev.  Mr.,  94. 
Ward,  Elizabeth  Phelps,  102. 
Washington,  George,  45,  60. 


Weld,  Dr.  Elias,  48-50,  66. 

Weld,  Theodore  D.,  51,  119. 

Wendell,  Ann,  141. 

"We  're  Free,"  150,  151. 

West,  Mary  S.,  46. 

West  Ossipee,  N.  H.,  no,  in. 

Whiteface,  86. 

Whitefield  church,  103. 

Whitefield,  George,  103,  104. 

Whittier,  Abigail,  22-24,  26i  74i  78- 

Whittier,  Elizabeth  H.,  28,  34, 61,  62,  74, 
75.  78,  85,  90-92,  150. 

Whittier  Hill,  14,  84. 

Whittier  home,  Amesbury,  61-79,  86. 

Whittier,  John,  12,  20,  24,  85. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  reviews  Boyd's 
"  Up  and  Down  the  Merrimac,"  4 ; 
interest  in  psychical  research,  23  ;  cata- 
logues his  father's  library,  24,  25  ;  his 
early  pessimism,  42-44,  129;  letter  to 
Dr.  Weld,  50,  51  ;  carrier's  address 
quoted,  51  note;  removal  to  Ames- 
bury,  60,  61  ;  tribute  of  Essex  Club, 
64  ;  friendship  for  schoolmates,  66-72  ; 
reason  why  never  married,  68  ;  portrait 
at  age  of  twenty-two,  69 ;  prostrated 
by  lightning,  73  ;  person  referred  to  in 
"  Memories  "  and  "  My  Playmate," 
67 ;  receives  bullet  wound,  76 ;  at 
town  meeting,  77 ;  home  life  sketched 
by  Higginson,  78 ;  plans  Friends'  meet- 
ing-house, 80 ;  preferred  silent  meet- 
ings, 81,82;  interest  in  psychical  re- 
search, 83;  his  cemetery  lot,  85;  care 
for  Amesbury  public  library,  96  ;  por- 
trait at  age  of  forty-nine,  95;  his  Bos- 
ton homes,  102 ;  letter  to  Newbury 
celebration,  103,  104;  radical  change  in 
his  spirit,  129  ;  peculiarity  of  his  laugh, 
108. 

Whittier,  Joseph,  20,  29,  47. 

Whittier,  Joseph,  2d,  29. 

Whittier,  Mary,  26,  29. 

Whittier,  Matthew  P'ranklin,  26,  37,  65, 
74,  85,  loo.- 

Whittier  mill,  18. 

Whittier,  Moses,  12,  20,  75,  85. 

Whittier,  Obadiah,  75. 

Whittier,  Thomas,  14,  15,  29,46. 

"  Willow,  The,"  148,  149. 

Winthrop  Hotel,  102. 

Winthrop,  Robert  C.,  64. 

"  Witch's  Daughter,  The,"  56. 

"  Wood  Giant,  The,"  gq,  100. 

Woodman,  Mrs.  Abby,  101. 

"  Worship  of  Nature,  The,"  144,  145. 

"  Wreck  of  Rivermouth,  The,"  88. 


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